


Like a Rose in Winter

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Classism, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kidfic, M/M, Skinny!Steve, Slow Burn, The Author Is An Awful Person, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tumblr otpprompt, canon character death, prince bucky, secret romance, servant Steve, stucky fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from the Tumblr otpprompt, Imagine person A, a prince or princess, falling for person B, the castle gardener who tends to the foliage surrounding A’s balcony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly want to resent whoever it is who keeps submitting these fluffy little prompts, but I love them too much.

“Prince James? Are you listening to me?” Bucky lingered in the middle of his daydream for the span of several heartbeats until his tutor gently tapped his shoulder. He startled, then peered up guiltily through his dark lashes, meeting her chiding look. “Did you hear anything that I just said?”

“Uh… kind of?”

“Then, repeat it for me.” Thinning, gray brows rose in challenge.

“Um… we were talking about Aristotle…”

“Yes. And?”

“And his theory that… trees…”

“Aristotle did not have any theories about trees, young Majesty.” Bucky’s palms were sweating. His tutor sighed and rose from her seat beside him.

“It’s too nice a day. Ten minutes. That’s as much of a reprieve as I’ll give you, young man.” Blue-gray eyes lit up, brighter than diamonds. He clapped his textbook shut and tried to run for the door. “Not yet. It’s brisk outside, Prince James. We need our cloaks.” He waited dutifully, fidgeting as she helped him into his, fastening the throat of the rich gray garment. His tutor, Mrs. Jarvis, often questioned the wisdom of giving the young prince his lessons in the library, when it had a large window overlooking the garden, which provided a constant temptation and a distraction. Autumn approached, painting the trees surrounding the garden in a riot of blazing colors. As they shed their leaves in large crisp piles, the groundsmen hurried to clear it, but not before the young prince had free run of it, waiting until they were gathered into a massive, inviting bed. The first leap into the crackling leaves was always the best.

They greeted him as they raked and cleared, and Mrs. Jarvis eyed him sternly. “Don’t overdo it.” Mischief danced in his eyes.

“I won’t,” he lied cheerfully, and like a shot, he was off! Mrs. Jarvis sighed and rolled her eyes, but she wouldn’t deprive him of this. His giggles were infectious, but she maintained her stern demeanor as he sized up the central pile. He took a running start, cloak flapping, sunlight catching all the auburn glints in his dark hair-

The leaves erupted before him in a _whoosh_ , thrown up by two small hands that burst up through the surface. “BOOM!” cried their owner, a boy who looked younger than Bucky, face jubilant. Momentum carried him too quickly, and the other boy’s eyes widened as they collided. Instead of a soft landing, Bucky tackled the little trespasser, leaving them both smarting and reeling.

“Ow… ow, ow…” The young boy looked thoroughly rattled where he lay back in the leaves, hair and clothing mussed. He was dressed in plain homespun and flannel, and he stared up at Bucky accusingly. “You _hit_ me!”

“Not on purpose,” Bucky argued back, huddled on all fours and rubbing his forehead. “You have a hard head… and this is _my_ pile.”

“It doesn’t have your name on it,” the little blond insisted. “And besides, I was here first!”

“Steven,” one of the groundsmen tutted firmly, “come along, now. It was an accident. His Majesty didn’t see you in there.” Mrs. Jarvis hurried forward and scolded the little one, who was pouting.

“I _was_ here first! And I helped make the pile, Papa!”

“I realize that, boy, but you surprised young James. Apologize.”

“Come along, Steven,” Joseph said, nodding humbly to Mrs. Jarvis. “There are other leaves.” Steve looked hurt. He rose from the leaf pile, and his father – the resemblance was obvious – led him away by the hand, dusting leaves from his sunny hair and simple clothing. Steve looked back over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still frowning.

“M’sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Steven murmured.

“S’okay,” Bucky mumbled back. Tantrum averted, Joseph led Steve to the other side of the orchard and put him to work gathering apples. Bucky went back to his leaf pile, but it somehow lost its appeal. Mrs. Jarvis herded him back into the library after the promised ten minutes ended. On the way back inside, Bucky’s eyes darted around the garden. He caught a glimpse of Steven balancing on a ladder while his father held it steady, reaching for a branch heavy with fruit. He looked so tiny. “Why doesn’t he have to have lessons?” Bucky demanded.

“He’s not a prince,” Mrs. Jarvis explained simply. “Come along.

It seemed monstrously unfair. Bucky retired to the library, convinced that little Steven had the more favorable arrangement of the two of them.

*

Mrs. Jarvis had her work cut out for her as autumn progressed, and as her pupil pleaded with her for more time outside before the weather grew too cold. Bucky often sought out the gardener’s son, and sometimes he would find Steve helping his father carry tools and tending the hedges, trimming down the ivy that crept up the castle walls, obscuring windows and strangling the queen’s prized flowering shrubs. From time to time, Bucky would catch him staring back, and he would wave. Steven would look chagrined, but he would shyly wave back before his father chided him that he was neglecting his work.

As Joseph had promised, there were other leaf piles. He took Mrs. Jarvis’ advice, “look before you leap, Prince James,” to heart, and he would often paw through the pile briefly before backing up to run at it. He still enjoyed his afternoon wallow in the raked heaps, a king lounging in his castle, laying back and listening to the wind blow, stray leaves dancing on eddies across the yard. But after a while, he grew lonely. Mrs. Jarvis reminded him gently that as his tutor, it wasn’t her place to “play,” which disappointed him. He began to search out Steve, watching him as he worked. He was slight, and he often had to climb up on ladders and stools to reach the same branches that the adult groundsmen did. But Steve went about his work with pride, as though his own efforts were just as vital to the upkeep of the royal gardens.  


Burning curiosity made Bucky's eyes follow Steven around the garden and loosened his tongue. "Why doesn't he get to play?" he asked Mrs. Jarvis one day while she gave him a botany lesson, unfortunately using his texts as a source instead of the preferred visit to the orchards.

"That's up to his father. Joseph Rogers is a servant. And you know that his mother was your nurse." Sarah worked alongside the palace physician and helped him with poultices and potions, a petite woman with a pleasant face who he only really saw when anyone in the palace was ailing or injured. "But we can't expect the servants to just 'come out and play, Prince James." She patted his hand. "He's just a servant. Steven is a very nice boy, but that's his lot in life."

Bucky was unsure of what to make of this discovery. Very unsure, indeed.

The seasons turned, autumn reds and golds giving way blinding white. He rarely saw Steve anymore, except when he passed the kitchen on the way to the dining room on some mornings. Steven took his meager breakfast at the small table by the hearth, small hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. Bucky's mother, Queen Winifred, urged him not to dawdle, since promptness was a princely imperative. Once in a while, Steven's blue eyes would follow him around the edge of the doorway from the table, not unlike waiting for a russet fox kit to emerge from its hole. The library window was crusted from the outside with snow crystals, the view less inviting without Joseph and the groundskeepers' little helper to provide his favorite distraction.

Spring, however...

Winifred and George decided to reward Bucky for his academic efforts with a gift. Mrs. Jarvis led him outside, and he bubbled with excitement as the fresh air hit his skin, his eyes covered by her soft, withered hands. "I want to open them!" he whined.

"Almost." She led him slowly those last few steps. "Now you may, child." They snapped open and then widened in delight, and a smiled bloomed on his face. A swing suspended on two smooth ropes from the sturdiest oak tree, waiting for him to take his first flight. He ran to it and scrambled onto the carefully sanded seat. Bucky insisted on a push, and Mrs. Jarvis reluctantly obliged, not wanting to take the edge off his joy. The wind whistled in his ears and ruffled his dark hair, making his cheeks rosy and chapped.

She tired quickly, and Bucky noticed she wasn't keeping up with his need for height. "Can we keep going?" he asked plaintively as his arc began to narrow. She gave him a slightly mulish look.

"Wouldn't you like to rest for a minute, Prince Bucky?" He drew up short, skidding to a stop with his booted feet.

"Do I have to?" His red lips pouted, and she felt a pang of guilt. Before she could open her mouth, she felt a tiny hand tug on her lantern sleeve. Mrs. Jarvis peered down at Joseph's boy curiously.

"Hello, child."

"I can push him, if you want," he offered shyly. But his eyes shone with longing, and Mrs. Jarvis felt a wave of sympathy for him. Of course, the swing would appeal to him, too. Even if he didn't get a turn - or permission - to play on the swing, what would it hurt to let him participate, and in his own way, serve one of his masters?

He just happened to be so adorable that she couldn't say no.

"Would you mind Steven giving you a push, Prince Bucky?" He gave an enthusiastic nod, not knowing the appropriate response was "no." Steven beamed, and the elderly teacher stepped back and watched Steven put his back into it and give Bucky a firm push, earning himself a loud whoop.

And so, their friendship was born.

*

Winifred and Mrs. Jarvis frequently reminded Bucky that the servants "had their place" and that Bucky had to meet certain expectations of his station, but he always gravitated toward Steven, or Steve, as the young groundskeeper insisted on being called. Steve was always expected to complete his chores, which grew more complex the older _he_ grew, and as his father entrusted him with more responsibility. But once his father told him he was finished, usually an hour before supper, he waited for Bucky to seek him out, by the swing, outside the tool shed, or by the piles of leaves before they were burned. They would romp about the garden and play hide and seek or tag, but Bucky would have to be mindful of the latter and the effect running for too long had on Steve's lungs. Sometimes they would take turns on the swing - Bucky learned to share, much to Mrs. Jarvis' silent approval - and sometimes, they would huddle on the hammock hung between the two tall elms, murmuring secrets and talking about their dreams, or just watching the clouds.

"That one looks like a wolf catching a rabbit in its mouth." Bucky twisted his mouth doubtfully.

"I dunno. That one just looks like a cloud to me." Not to be outdone, however, he pointed to its left hand neighbor. “That looks like a troll, with big teeth.”

“Kind of.” Steve squinted up. “Think trolls eat people?”

“Maybe.” Steve pondered that a moment.

“Do you think we taste good?” Bucky grinned, giving Steve a little shove with his shoulder where they laid nudged against each other. He turned slightly, making the hammock tilt precariously, and he lapped a damp streak over Steve’s plump cheek.

“No!” Bucky informed him, chortling over Steve’s disgusted reaction and the flurrying slaps he gave his own face, trying to wipe off his lick.

“That’s NASTY, Bucky!” Bucky feigned the same look he would make over a sip of sour milk. Steve swatted him.

“I’m a prince. You can’t do that,” Bucky informed him saucily. Steve’s smile faded briefly.

“Guess not.” He rose from the hammock, making it swing unevenly and jerk as he climbed off. “Sorry.”

“Wait!”

“M’gonna go inside,” Steve grumbled under his breath.

“You can’t, yet!” Bucky insisted as he launched himself from the hammock and darted after him. Steve’s cheeks were flushed, and his face was strained. “Steve, wait! I was just teasing! STEVE!”

“You’re a prince,” Steve muttered. “You can do what you want. “I’ve got chores, your Highness.” That drew Bucky up short. 

“You always call me Bucky,” he insisted hollowly. His mouth tasted try and an ugly tingle spread over his cheeks.

“M’sposed to call you ‘Prince Bucky’,” Steve admitted. “That’s the rule,” he admitted.

“So I can do this, and you can’t do anything about it?”

“Do what?” Steve’s tone was wary. Bucky’s face slowly spread into a grin.

“ _This._ ” He pounced, wrapping Steve in a headlock and scrubbing his knuckles over his scalp. It was a well-practiced trick that never grew old, and Steve deplored it, but it worked. Steve tried to wrest himself free, and the two of them jerked in a circle, Steve poking Bucky’s armpit to try to make him let go. Bucky fidgeted at the attack, trying to evade Steve’s fingers, and the two of them landed and rolled in a ball of limbs in the dirt, still giggling and growling promises of revenge. They untangled themselves and laid back on their elbows, panting and grinning at each other. Steve nodded to Bucky’s tunic.

“You’re getting it dirty.”

“I don’t care.” Steve’s smile faltered.

“You should.” He got up and began to dust himself off, then instinctively began to swipe his hands over Bucky’s clothing, coaxing off the dirt. “Clothing doesn’t grow on trees.” His mother had told him that often enough when she sewed up his rent pants or tried to wash a grass stain from the knees after he helped Joseph with the planting. “And it’s nice.” He didn’t mention that the blue fabric brought out Bucky’s eyes. Colored fabric was prized and took a lot of effort to dye. Many of the villagers and royal staff wore the beige and cream linens and homespun or wool due to meager budgets.

As though Steve had summoned her with his warnings, Mrs. Jarvis arrived and exclaimed over Bucky’s mussed state. “That won’t do at all,” she scolded. “Look at these stains, Prince Bucky! You’ll need a proper bath after supper!” Bucky grimaced.

“Awwwww!” Mrs. Jarvis herded both boys inside, but Steve dutifully remained on the ground floor while she bustled with Bucky upstairs to give Bucky’s soiled clothing to the palace laundress. Bucky turned back longingly, and stuck out his tongue in reply to Steve’s unsympathetic grin.  
*  
Winter gradually rolled around again, and Bucky roamed the castle one afternoon when his lessons were finished. Mrs. Jarvis retired to her suite for a nap after drinking a potion to soothe her arthritis, which left Bucky to his own devices. He shrugged into his coat and snuck outside into the garden, looking around for Steve. He saw Joseph returning the shovels to the shed, looking grim and tired. He ran over to him, calling out, “Mr. Rogers, sir! Where’s Steve?” His eyes searched for him, not finding his small form bundled to the teeth against the cold. “Is he in the kitchen?”

“Nay, Majesty,” he replied gruffly. “I’m afraid he isn’t. Steven’s been in bed all day. He took sick last night.” Bucky’s smile faded.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Fever, and he’s caught the ague. He’s not well, Prince Bucky.” He managed the words calmly enough, but he used that tone of voice that children feared from adults’ mouths. Defeat. Despair. Uncertainty. 

All of the words Joseph wouldn’t say were written in the bags under his eyes and the slight sag of his shoulders. Bucky knew he should offer him some platitude or well-wishing out of politeness, but his feet carried him back inside at a fast clip, boots kicking up patches of snow in his wake. Bucky darted down the corridor to the servants’ wing, and he was panting slightly when he reached the Rogers’ family’s suite. He gave door a few gentle knocks, and Bucky heard Sarah’s light footsteps moving toward him, followed by a spate of hacking, wet-sounding coughs and Steve’s childish voice trying unsuccessfully to clear his throat. Bucky winced. He schooled his face into calm shapes when Sarah opened the door to him. Her smile was serene, but her eyes, like Joseph’s, were unspeakably tired, ringed in dark circles.

“Oh, hello, Prince Bucky,” she offered. “What can I do for you?”

“Can I see him? Is Steve sick?”

“He is, dear, but I don’t want you to catch what he has. It kept him up last night, and he’s still feeling poorly. He really can’t play right now.”

“It’s all right if he can’t play,” Bucky told her simply, straightening up and mustering his most important voice. “I just want to see him. Just for a minute.” Her expression turned bleak.

“Prince Bucky, for your own safety, I truly can’t let you-“

“What if I command it?” Bucky suggested quickly. Sarah straightened up. “I can, you know.”

“I know you can. You are the prince, son of my king, Prince Bucky.” She expelled a gusty breath. “But Steven is _my_ son. It’s my duty to care for him when he’s not well, and to make sure no one else catches his sickness. I’m truly sorry, Majesty, but I cannot accept guests for Steven right now.” Bucky’s cheeks felt hot, and a flutter of panic rose in his chest as she began to close the door.

“Wait! Please!” He fumbled for the right words. “Just… tell him I’ll be in the library. And that I looked for him in the garden, earlier.” His fists clenched, and the awkwardness choked him. “Are you going to make him better?” he blurted out. Her smile was earnest.

“I’m going to do everything in my power,” she told him, but she wouldn’t promise him anything else. Bucky nodded and took his leave. He went back to the garden, watching the eddies blow the snowflakes around in a swirling dance, threatening to re-coat the area that Joseph and his men already cleared. Bucky wandered the garden aimlessly, sulking and fretting about Steve. The confrontation with his mother made his eyes burn with shame. He’d spoken out of turn, when she had to be exhausted and upset, and Bucky regretted his own thoughtlessness. 

Bucky inspected the shrubs, topped with domes of snow, growing in perfect rows. He’d been about to whack the pile of snow off of a piny bush, just for lack of anything else to do, when something red caught his eye.

It was a rose. Bucky made a sound of surprise and took off his mitten before he reached for it. Somehow, the bud managed to survive til the end of autumn, stubbornly enduring the first snowfall. It was a deep blood red, one of Queen Winifred’s favorites. Bucky ignored the frigid air and shucked his other mitten, cramming them both into his pocket as he fumbled with the rose, carefully snapping it from its branch, hissing in annoyance when one of the thorns pricked him. He coaxed the rest of the thorns off with stubby fingertips, disarming it as he walked back inside. Bucky fumbled out of his cloak and hung it on the hook near the hearth before dashing back to the servants’ wing. 

His knock was gentle, and he almost heard Sarah hesitate before she came to answer the door this time. She smiled down at him, but before she could offer him anymore reasons why a visit with Steve wasn’t feasible, he extended the rose to her expectantly. A peace offering. A token. 

“Tell him to feel better,” Bucky murmured. “Please.”

“Yes, Prince Bucky.” She took the rose gently. “I will indeed. I’ll show him this when he wakes up, and tell him what he missed outside.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Rogers.” He darted off again, and she smiled after him, stroking the rose’s velvety petals.

Burning curiosity and worry got the best of Bucky. He crept out of his suite that night, long after the lanterns and sconces were extinguished and the fire was lit in his suite’s stove. Bucky tiptoed downstairs, down the long corridor, carefully evading the palace guard, ducking behind statuary, a suit of armor, a tall vase, whatever would shield him from adult eyes as he made his trek. He wandered to Steve’s door and noticed that it was slightly ajar. Bucky gave the door a gentle push, hoping the hinge wouldn’t squeal.

Moonlight shone inside the modest suite. He heard the sonorous breathing of Steven’s parents from their bed, bundled together against the night’s draft. And Bucky saw Steve, bundled up, hair mussed from sleep, mouth agape as he snored. His breathing sounded raspy and thick, and Bucky wrinkled his nose at the scent of something herbal that Sarah must have smeared on his chest and throat.

He looked small and vulnerable. Having been deprived of him all day, Bucky needed to touch him now, just to assure himself, to ground himself… he just… _needed_ …

His small fingers stroked his hair, slightly damp with sweat where it was plastered to his brow. His touch was hesitant, light, loathe to wake him, but Steve barely stirred. He smacked his lips briefly, then resumed his ragged breathing. When Bucky stroked his cheek, he leaned into his touch. Bucky carefully adjusted his blanket and pulled it up, tucking it over his shoulder to protect him from the draft. He gave in to the urge to bend down and kiss the top of his hair. Steve jerked and snorked in his sleep, and Bucky leapt back from the bed, not wanting to be found out. He tingled with fear and fled the room, heart pounding until he reached his own.


	2. The Shortest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship is precious. More than that, between a prince and his servant, is forbidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously. My muses SUCK.
> 
> This was gonna be cute and fluffy and kittens and rainbows and chocolate candy sprinkles. A little kissy-face. A bumbling, awkward romance. 
> 
> My muses jumped on my desk, waved their hands in my face and yelled, "whoa, whoa, WHOA. Back that truck up."  
> Me: Um... whyyyyyyyy?  
> Them: Seriously? You're gonna leave it there?  
> Me: That was the PROMPT-  
> Them: Uh, the PROMPT, sure. But that's not the whole story. Where's the PLOT? Where's the ANGST?  
> Me: Oh, shit... HERE we go...  
> Them: We see you trying to run and hide. Get your fat butt back here and outline this mutha. And while we're at it, here's a whole kiloton bucketload of angst and suffering. And some PINING. And some SHAMELESS CRYING.   
> Me: *reaches for the tea and Motrin* I'm not gonna sleep tonight, am I?

Years passed, and Steve and Bucky gradually outgrew the old swing. Steve grew more slowly than Bucky, remaining thin as a reed and woefully short (in his opinion). His voice deepened, however, lingering only briefly in the froggy awkwardness of puberty, until he owned a rich, smooth baritone. His hair darkened to wheat blond, and his eyes remained a stunning cerulean blue, usually twinkling with mischief. Bucky grew taller and broader, baby fat falling away from his cheeks and revealing sharp bone structure and a wicked cleft in his chin. At fifteen and sixteen, respectively, they were a study in contrasts, and they were still inseparable. Bucky excelled in his studies, and Steve benefited from his instruction when they would furtively chat outside the shed. Steve would smuggle cookies for them out of the kitchen; Bucky would sometimes sneak the king’s pipe and tobacco, and they would smoke until one or both of them got sick.

Bucky still watched Steve from the library window, completing more of the yard chores himself as Joseph began to slow down, growing more stooped, hands gnarled with arthritis. Steve remained busy enough that he often didn’t see Bucky for more than a few minutes a day. Bucky enjoyed less freedom as time passed when George turned him over to his captain of the guard for knight’s training. He wrestled, fenced, shot arrows and learned how to joust, often not returning inside the castle until after dark, muscles trembling and stinging with fatigue.

Sometimes, they stole an evening to themselves. Bucky, once his groom prepared him for bed, would sneak downstairs, padding in his nightshirt and bare feet to the servants’ quarters. He would linger in the hallway with a candle, around the corner from the Rogers’ family’s door. Bucky would wait for Steve, who would creep out of his room just as furtively and quietly as Bucky. They would smirk in greeting, a candle burning between them as they tipped off to the library for a cup of tea and game of chess. Sometimes, Steve would retrieve Bucky instead, waiting outside and tossing a pebble up against balcony railing. Bucky would then climb down gripping the long tangles of ivy clinging to the wall; the boys had a tacit agreement that Steve wouldn’t cut it, and that he would discourage Joseph and the rest of the gardening staff from clearing it away.

Mrs. Jarvis got on in years, but Winifred and George retained her out of loyalty as the Barnes’ family grew. Bucky’s sisters, Rebecca and Fiona, and his brother William suffered their older brother’s promise of discipline if they didn’t mind their aging instructor. When the weather grew too cold, Bucky and Steve took the younger siblings out into the garden to spare Mrs. Jarvis’ aching joints; Bucky assured his parents that Steve was more patient with the children than their governess, and that they behaved themselves much better under his eye. Joseph and the other groundsmen didn’t question their prince’s edict that Steve would split his time between his duties in the garden and his responsibility to the Barnes’ children. Sarah watched them wistfully from the upstairs corridor, hands pressed against the window and a calm smile on her lips. Steven was her only child, something she frequently regretted, but she’d had a difficult birth. She’d almost lost the tender newborn and nearly perished herself. If she took vicarious joy in watching Steven play with the children, pushing them on the swing, giving them piggyback rides, helping them up onto horses in the stables, or reading them stories, then no one needed to know it, and Joseph said nothing. 

Fiona, at the moment, was trying to convince Steve that he needed more flowers in his hair. “These yellow ones are pretty,” she cajoled as she reached up to stick another decapitated daisy behind his ear.

“Yes, they’re very lovely. Almost as lovely as the white and blue ones,” he told her solemnly. Rebecca was studiously tucking flowers into her own braids, compliments of Steve’s nimble hands. Their governess had chided both girls not to play on the swing with their unbound hair, thinking to limit their play, until Steve offered to plait it. Tangled hair averted, the girls swung their fill while Bucky sent Willie flying on the second knotted rope swing hung nearby his old one. Steve endured a few more daisies in his hair, the soul of patience, but he shifted himself where he sat in the grass, rolling his shoulders to lessen the ache in his back. His kyphosis wasn’t pronounced, but at fifteen he already appeared mildly stooped. Yet he never complained, nor did he beg off of his work. He was dedicated to his position on the king’ staff, a credit to his parents’ efforts and stern upbringing.

“You look like Goldilocks,” she informed him.

“How does Goldilocks look, sweetheart?” Bucky was smirking at him from his perch by the tree, where he was grabbing the end of the rope and whipping it, sending Willie sailing through the air and crowing at the top of his lungs.

“She’s ‘utiful. She has yellow hair.” Steve shot Bucky an _aren’t you jealous? You’re sister says I’m beautiful_ look over Fee’s shoulder and pretended to preen until she pinned him with her big brown eyes. Steve enjoyed her four-year-old’s reasoning and wisdom. “And… and, it’s long. And, and-and, she has blue eyes. Blue like the sky.” Steve gasped on cue.

“Like the sky, Fiona? Oh, my!”

“And, then, and, she… she eats porridge. She eats a lot of porridge.” Steve grinned, trying not to laugh outright. “She took it from some bears.”

“That sneaky little girl!”

“No,” she corrected him with a great sense of importance and authority. “She was _sleepy,_ Steeb.” Rebecca looked over at them both and giggled. She continued to regale him of how Goldilocks trespassed in someone else’s house, even though it was improper and dangerous.

“Bucky, Steve has flowers in his hair!” Becca announced gleefully, even though she was one of the culprits.

“Wait… what? How did those get there?” he mock-gasped, bringing his hand to his cheek. Seven-year-old Becca scooched over in the grass, heedless of her day dress, and she began to pluck them out, but Fee pouted and just as quickly picked more daisies to replace them with. Steve sighed.

It was still a more pleasant job than trimming the hedges or clearing the pruned branches. The royal kitchen already made judicious use of the summer harvest. As the days grew cooler and shorter, the grounds staff made haste to prune the orchards for the coming cold months so they wouldn’t lose any to blight.

“How do you make a chain?” Rebecca asked, holding up a handful of flowers that she was attempting to twist together?”

“I wish I knew,” he admitted, secretly relieved that he wouldn’t end up wearing more “jewelry” if he could help it. She looked disappointed.

“I wish I knew, too.”

Steve and Bucky were roused from their leisurely play by the sound of raucous laughter and crude jibes from the stable yard. A group of pages in training ambled past, carrying practice shields and swords. Bucky made a face; if it was time for them to practice, then he had to join them. It was one of George’s rules. As Willie swung back to him, Bucky caught the knotted end of the rope and slowed his brother’s arc to a halt. “Awwwwww!” Willie whined.

“Steve can push you for a while, sprout,” he told him. “Or you and Becca can take turns on the other swing.” Willie hopped down to the ground in a huff.

“That’s the baby swing!” he complained, disregarding that his sister had a year on him.

“Then don’t act like a baby, and we can go again before dinner,” Bucky shrugged. “If you’re good.”

“No fair!” Willie was pouting. Bucky ducked his face, giving him a searching look.

“How do we behave when someone asks us to wait?” Willie pouted and stared down at the ground.

“I don’t argue,” he muttered.

“And didn’t someone get a new practice sword of their very own for their birthday a few days ago?” Willie brightened.

“Can I come?”

“You’d better hurry if you are. Knights mustn’t be late.” He waved to the pages as they noticed him and began calling out to him to join them. The oldest of them, Brock, noticed Steve where he still sat on the ground, stripping the thorns from a rose for Becca.

“Look at the little girly with flowers in his hair?” Brock whistled, and the other pages whooped and jeered. “Little Stevie, fairy prince!” Steve made a noise of annoyance and ignored them, not wanting to set a bad example for the children by displaying his usual sass. Then, he thought better of it.

“You’re just green with jealousy that Princess Rebecca and Prince Fiona find me _much_ more beautiful than you.” Rebecca blushed and grinned; Fee giggled behind her tiny hands. Brock, not to be outdone, threw up his hands and played along.

“What’s that? Ridiculous!” He posed and preened, flexing one of his muscles. “I am a mighty knight, ladies – and I am _gorgeous!_ ” He put on his best “gallant” face and that made the girls giggle even more. Then he turned to Bucky. “You’re dawdling, your Majesty.”

“Willie needs his sword,” Bucky called back. “We’ll be right there!” Brock nodded knowingly, smirking, and he joined the rest of the pages on their way to the practice yard. Steve watched them with a degree of longing, but Fee and Becca roused him from his daydreaming.

“I’m hungry, Steve,” Becca informed him.

“Want cookies,” Fee suggested helpfully. Steve tsked loudly, poking her in her side. She tried to evade his tickling fingers, but he caught her around her plump middle.

“What? COOKIES?” He tickle-attacked her and hauled her up into his arms, swinging her onto his back. “You always want cookies, young lady!”

“I do, I do!” she crowed. They trekked inside, trailing bits of grass and flower heads – Steve’s – in their wake. Steve turned them over to their governess, who rolled her eyes at their disheveled state and took them to the kitchen. Steve returned to the yard to help his father, but before he resumed the work clearing the branches, he watched Bucky lead Willie, his smaller double, out to the training yard, carrying his wooden practice sword against his shoulder. He looked burdened with purpose, and Bucky, with his arm wrapped around his shoulders, looked so proud. Steve felt his chest squeeze, unable to name the emotions trickling through him.

He bent to his work and helped the crew finish up by sundown. He took his supper in the kitchen, looking up when Bucky and Willie tramped through the corridor. Bucky paused for a moment, out of habit, and he grinned.

“Where’re the daisies?”

“Some fairies stole them from me,” Steve insisted blandly.

“I heard Becca asking Janet how to make daisy chains,” Bucky informed him cheerfully as they headed to the dining room. Steve groaned around a mouthful of soup.

*

Bucky rubbed his sore shoulder, rotating it gingerly to soothe it. Practice was grueling, and he’d spent an hour shooting with Clint’s bow. He came away with stiff fingers and a small nick on his cheek, but he was getting better, seldom missing the target now and frequently hitting the center. Willie was a quick study with the sword, leaving new nicks and splinters in the wooden dummy as he practiced his attacks. If being second in line to inherit the throne didn’t interest him, Bucky mused, then their father would have another knight on his hands, and a passionate one at that.

Bucky wandered into the servants’ wing in search of Sarah Rogers, wanting a bit of her liniment. Steve swore by it when his muscles ached from a day in the yard, and Bucky decided it couldn’t hurt to try it. He knocked gently on the door, but to his delight, Steve appeared instead. The blonde’s brows beetled.

“What brings you here?”

“Your mother’s liniment. Might she make me some? My shoulder hurts.” It was throbbing, and he winced. Steve noticed his discomfort and stepped aside to let him in. He no longer felt ashamed of his tiny quarters when Bucky visited, because Bucky never belittled it or overfocused on it. He was there to see _Steve,_ of course, not his suite. 

“Sit, please,” Steve beckoned, nodding to his cot instead of the chair. Bucky gratefully sank down onto it and leaned his back against the wall. He crooked his neck to the side and closed his eyes, letting the joints crack, and Steve pulled a face.

“That didn’t sound good.”

“It _felt_ good,” Bucky countered as he rubbed his nape. Then he gave his attention back to his shoulder.

“We still have some. Mother won’t have to make more quite yet.” He went to the shelf and sorted through the collection of potion bottles, herbs wrapped in strings, and small clay jars. Steve retrieved a gray jaw and uncapped it, giving it a sniff. “This one.” He nodded to him. “Undo that.”

“My shirt?”

“It won’t help your shoulder if I put it on your shirt. Yes, take off your shirt,” Steve teased, smirking. 

“Idiot,” Bucky snickered. 

“Just a suggestion.”

“It had better only be a suggestion, sir! Orders can only come from the king, queen, princess, or prince!” Bucky did a sterling impersonation of his father, making his voice haughty and gruff. Steve shook his head.

“I’m tempted not to help you.”

“All right! All right…” Bucky untied the laces of his shirt, loosening the collar, and he drew it up over his head, exposing his sweaty flesh.

Steve’s mouth went dry.

He was so beautiful, built on lean lines and sculpted with firm muscle. Bucky’s skin was tanned from time outside. His arms were dusted with dark hair, well acquainted with puberty. Dutifully, he sat up straight, leaning forward on the edge of the cot for Steve to attend to him. Steve closed the gap between them, suddenly nervous. Bucky peered down into the jar and sniffed it briefly.

“What’s in it that makes it smell like that?”

“Eucalyptus, and some other things,” Steve explained. “Smells awful, but it works.”

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky murmured.

“Where does it hurt?” Bucky rolled his neck again, then gripped his right shoulder.

“It’s always my bow arm. I shot all of Clint’s arrows myself today, feels like,” Bucky complained.

“Did you shoot Brock in the ass this time?” It was a common, empty promise Bucky made. He wasn’t fond of the older page, since he was frequently a braggart and he was always competing with Bucky, often speaking out of turn, fighting dirty when they sparred or fenced, and constantly taunting Steve.

“Clint was watching. Next time, Steve.”

“Aim low. Don’t confuse it with his face,” Steve told him helpfully as he scooped out a modest amount of salve and massaged it into Bucky’s trapezius. His fingers worked it into his warm flesh, kneading the muscle the way he’d watch his mother do it with many of the adult service staff and his own father. Bucky’s eyes closed in rapture and his mouth dropped open slightly. His groan of relief licked over Steve’s nerve endings, settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Steve,” Bucky moaned, “ _bless you._ ”

“You’re welcome,” Steve hummed cheerfully. He looked down at Bucky for permission, and when Bucky opened half-lidded eyes and nodded, he took more salve, rubbed his hands together, and balanced against the cot on one knee. He leaned gingerly against Bucky and kneaded his shoulders, letting the slick liniment ease the firm slide of his palms and talented fingers.

“Mmmmm… you have strong hands,” Bucky murmured.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Steve warned him. “Otherwise, they’ll make me do real work.” Bucky’s eyes snapped open, and he frowned up at his friend.

“You _do_ real work, dummy!” Steve chuckled.

“So you admit that I do, then?”

“I never doubted it. I never said you didn’t,” Bucky accused. “Why? Did someone say anything, Steve?”

“No,” Steve lied as he pressed his thumbs into Bucky’s neck, easing the knots he found there. His touch mingled pleasure with the pain of coaxing the stubborn muscles to unbunch themselves, and Bucky exhaled deeply through his nose, chest rising and falling with emphasis. Steve’s eyes tracked the ripple of movement before he forced himself to stare at his own hands as he worked. Being close to Bucky, touching him, listening to his deep, even breathing and feeling his solid bulk leaning back against Steve’s leg was doing something to him, stirring his groin and making his pulse race. 

“You should tell me if anyone did. You know that,” Bucky lectured. His voice held a stern note. Steve sighed.

“No. I shouldn’t. If I’m doing my share, no one will tell me _anything,_ ” Steve explained, as though Bucky was Willie’s age, since Bucky could sometimes be stubborn. Steve wouldn’t let Bucky fret over what anyone said, particularly Brock. Steve was a gardener. Brock was a page, and he would soon be a knight. They would never share the same status, and Steve didn’t want Bucky to get in trouble for stirring things up with Brock or taking umbrage. 

“No one should tell you anything if they don’t want to get themselves thrashed,” Bucky countered. He leaned back and looked up at Steve. “Look me in the eye and tell me that Brock isn’t bothering you. Has he done anything to you, Steve?”

“Buck…” Steve’s lips tightened, and his hands stilled on Bucky’s shoulders. When he tried to let go of him and lean away, Bucky gripped his hand, pinning him.

“Tell me.”

“Bucky… it’s nothing…” Bucky’s brows beetled, nostrils flaring. His lips were a firm line as he tightened his grip on Steve’s hand, but not painfully.

“Tell me, Steve.”

“I can handle Brock. I can handle people like him myself, Bucky.” Blue eyes flitted over Bucky’s features, and Steve’s face was determined, voice steady and hard. “It’s not your place to worry about me, or to feel like you should protect me.” Bucky shook his head.

“Steve. Yes, it is.” Steve found himself floundering under his gaze, not wanting to back down, but he didn’t want Bucky to read his secrets in his eyes. Didn’t want him to see the shame left from Brock’s taunts, from the random times that he’d shoved him, sabotaged his work, tripped him as he passed with arms laden with tools or trays of plants, or groped him, claiming that he mistook him for a maiden. He always made sport of Steve whenever his father was out of sight and earshot, away from the supervision of Clint or Tony, the captain of the guard. 

“Brock can’t hurt me.”

“Then, prove it.”

“What?” Steve’s brows drew together, and he tugged his hand free of Bucky’s grip.

“Take that off.”

“Take…?”

“Your shirt. Show me.” Bucky stood up, making Steve look up at him. He almost hated himself for it, but he needed him to heed him. To _understand_ him.

“Bucky… that’s ridiculous, don’t-“ Steve shook his head.

“I’m giving you an order, Steven,” he told him softly. Steve sputtered.

“You can’t!”

“Oh, but I can,” Bucky told him, shrugging. “By birth. I definitely can.”

Steve’s lip quivered. He was still scowling as he fumbled slightly with the ties of his shirt. “Bucky… please. Please, don’t…”

“If you won’t tell me, Steve, then I want you to show me.” The unspoken plea, _But we’re friends_ remained trapped in Steve’s mouth. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and stared down at the floor as he finished opening his shirt. It was baggy on his narrow frame; he was able to slide it down off of his shoulders, all the way down to his elbows without removing it.

“Bucky…” His voice was so low Bucky could barely hear it. “Please, don’t…”

“Steve. Please turn around.” Steve’s eyes burned as he obeyed, relieved for a few moments that Bucky couldn’t see his face, but well aware that he had a perfect view of the large bruise on his lower back. Bucky hissed out an angry breath, stunned at the deep purple mark marring Steve’s fair skin. “Steve…”

“It’s nothing,” Steve told him dully, jaw clenched. “Are you finished?”

“Is that the only one,” Bucky asked him quietly, “or are there more?”

“If it pleases my prince,” Steve told him haltingly, voice thick, and Bucky knew then that he had gone too far, presumed too much of their friendship, protective urges be damned, “I would prefer to leave my trousers where they are.”

“But… there are _more_.” Steve let out a shuddering breath and shrugged back into his shirt sleeves, hastily doing it back up. “Don’t protect him-“

“You hate him, anyway,” Steve accused. “I’m not protecting him. I wouldn’t. But don’t think to get back at him _because_ of me, Prince James Buchanan.” He dashed at his eyes before he turned back to face Bucky, and his face was a stony mask. “Just don’t.”

“I hate anyone who would lay their hands on you. I won’t tolerate it, Steve, and neither would my father! I would see him horsewhipped-“

“ _No._ ” Steve’s face hardened, and Bucky knew that Steve no longer cared about their difference in status. “You won’t. Because then, Bucky, your father would wonder why. He would ask why, why you would care for a son of a gardener, when he has so many servants who don’t cause him any trouble, and that would make _trouble,_ Bucky. Servants, not worth horsewhipping anyone who _they serve_ or bothering the king with rubbish.”

“It’s not rubbish!” Bucky insisted hotly. 

“Please, Bucky. Sit. Let me see to your shoulder.” Steve sighed, breath shuddering out of his chest. “Just let me take care of it. All right?”

“It’s not right,” Bucky murmured. “It’s not, Steve.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. Bucky… please. Please, just… let it go.” Bucky weighed his words. “Does it still hurt?” Bucky rotated it experimentally; the throbbing had dulled somewhat, but he nodded, anyway. His emotions were too close to the surface, roiling in his chest. 

“You could work on it a little more,” he told him. Bucky sat, and Steve resumed his place propped on one knee. Bucky’s scent tickled his nose, perspiration mingling with the herbal notes of the liniment, hair giving off the smell of his pheromones and sunshine from a day spent under it.

“You feel tight,” Steve told him. Bit by bit, Bucky began to relax again, and Steve mapped out the contours of his shoulders and neck with his hands, palm sliding down to his upper arm, giving that an experimental squeeze. Bucky hummed in approval, and Steve expanded the range of his efforts. He manipulated Bucky, making him press his shoulders back, then let them sag forward again so he could work on his back. Bucky was turning into wet clay under his hands. Bucky leaned his back and let it thunk back against Steve’s chest, making his friend chuckle.

“Sure you don’t want to be a nurse, instead?” Bucky said dreamily. “You’re better at this then you are at cutting hedges.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my hedges!” Steve argued, giving Bucky’s shoulder a light swat. 

“They’re always crooked. And you can’t do that. I’m a _prince_. No violence, Rogers.”

“Will I get horsewhipped?”

“Keep on running that mouth…”

“Idiot.”

“Cretin.”

Steve massaged him, kneading his muscles into submission and pulling him into a stupor. The heel of his palm pressed the correct points in his shoulders, knuckles finding the loudest complaints in his scapula. Steve’s heart was hammering, and he broke out into a sweat at the inadvertent press of Bucky’s body against his, the top of his hair dusting Steve’s collarbones when he leaned back, hair tickling his skin. The liniment had dried, but Steve continued to run his hands over him, molding his quadriceps, the crests of his shoulders, and the tiny line of bumps in the back of his neck, counting them with his thumbs. He paused, then combed his fingers through his hair, too rich and tempting not to touch, but when Bucky stiffened and opened his eyes, roused from his daze, Steve stopped. Stood stock-still. 

“Is that enough?” Was it too much?

“Not yet, Steve.” Bucky tilted his face around slightly, not looking up into his face yet, but he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Steve’s wrist. Steve’s heart was pounding, knocking within his chest, and Bucky felt it in his racing pulse. When Bucky did stare up into Steve’s face, Steve’s eyes were dilated, and they were _afraid._ He licked his lips, and Bucky tracked the motion, seeing that pink tongue flick out before Steve chewed on the lower one, a vulnerable gesture that spoke a thousand words. “You’re shaking.”

“Bucky…”

Bucky twisted around to face him, reached up and wrapped his hand around Steve’s nape, tugging him down into curious, chaste kiss. Their breath mingled hotly, Steve’s pulse thrumming in his slender neck, just under Bucky’s thumb. Steve whimpered, briefly embarrassed by the sound, but Bucky greeted it with a low, contented sigh, lips lingering, then caressing his again. Gentle strokes of his lips, untried yet needy, pleading with Steve, the only time their positions didn’t matter in that regard. Bucky tried him on like a new silk tunic, fingertips tracing his sharp jawline and combing through his soft blond waves.

“ _Bucky._ ” Steve’s whisper was strained, confused. “We shouldn’t…” Bucky chased his lips when he pulled back, and despite his own warning, Steve accepted the kiss eagerly, savoring it. Frissons of pleasure rippled down his spine, and his skin was tingling wherever it brushed Bucky’s. When he pulled it back, he realized that he was clinging to Bucky, arm slung around his broad shoulders, fingers trailing over his firm back.

“Why sh-“ Bucky’s words were cut off by the sound of the door hinge squealing slightly as Sarah Rogers pushed it open with her hip, her arms laden with a large basket of herbs and oils. The boys sprang apart guiltily, hearts hammering, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide and shining with guilt. Bucky lunged up off the bed and straightened up, and Steve scrambled to find Bucky’s shirt.

“Bucky’s – Majesty – his Majesty’s shoulder was hurting him,” Steve stammered quickly as he shoved his tunic at his friend. Bucky was nodding as he began to fumble and jerk it on in stiff motions, hands shocked out of that ability by her arrival and surprised look.

“Is that,” she sniffed the air, “my liniment?”

“Yes, Mother. It… it helped him. Didn’t it?” He looked to Bucky for confirmation. Bucky nodded.

“It did. Shoulder’s good. Feels a lot better, Mrs. Rogers.”

“It’s better if you have it rubbed on after a hot bath. Helps soothe the muscles more effectively, your Highness,” she explained as she set down her basket on the master bed. “I can leave a jar for Phillip, if you want him to administer it next time, as part of your bedtime preparations?” She didn’t say _Because that’s HIS job,_ even though it was inferred by the chiding look on her face. Steve winced, but he recovered himself.

“Mother can make anything you want, Bu- your Highness,” he told him quickly. 

“I’ll just… get out of your way. I’ll get out,” Bucky babbled. His eyes apologized to Steve as he hurried out. Sarah held the door for him.

“Good night, Prince Bucky.” She gently closed it and then leaned back against it, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “What was that?” she asked softly.

“Mother…”

“Did I see what I think I saw, Steven Grant?”

“Mother, no. It… he… I just gave him some of the liniment. I didn’t think you’d mind. I watch you do it all the time…”

“As my king and queen command, Steven. One doesn’t just lay hands on royal family members, Steven. It’s a privilege only they can grant.”

“Bucky asked me to,” Steve argued, but his eyes were burning, and he was having a difficult time meeting her eyes. Sarah walked up to him and took his upper arms firmly. 

“Steven, he’s ‘his Highness’ or ‘Prince Bucky’ to you. Don’t forget that, even if he gives you permission to use his name. Never forget who he is. Or who you are.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “And that means taking no other liberties. It was all right to offer him the balm, Steven, but touching him wasn’t appropriate. You could be punished for that.”

“I’m – sorry,” he told her, voice thickening with shame. “Mother, I didn’t mean… I don’t want to get you in trouble, and… and I just… his shoulder was hurting him, and I wanted to please him. He’s my _friend._ ”

“I know you think that, dear,” she told him, shaking her head sadly. “And I know you wanted to show him kindness. That’s admirable, but there are rules, Steven. I feel as though I interrupted something important. Something that could lead to trouble if I don’t put a stop to it.” Steve shook his head.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong.” His voice was croaky, and the tears finally spilled. Sarah’s heart cracked, but she mastered it.

“I’m afraid you were. I know you’re young. Curious. I’m sure Prince Bucky is curious, too. He didn’t mean any harm, but you’re walking on dangerous ground. He’s a prince. You’re one of his servants. And Bucky is a young _man_ , Steven.” Her face looked fearful, and Steve mourned that fear, hating himself for letting it mark her features. He loved his mother so much, and it tore him to pieces to see her disappointed in him. “This has to stop.” He closed his eyes, shuddering with a silent sob. “Do you understand, Steven?” He nodded, and he ducked his face, but she caught him close, embracing him fiercely.

“You’re all your father and I have. I won’t have you punished for stepping out of bounds, Steven. I won’t. You won’t risk yourself, or your family by engaging that young man’s interest.” 

She held her son for a long time, stroking him and soothing him while his heart broke.

*

The next day, Bucky went out to his training session with a burr under his bonnet, fuming and determined. Steve had made himself scarce; when he looked for him in the garden, Joseph informed him gruffly that Steven was working inside that day, helping Sarah mix potions and grind herbs, and that Mrs. Jarvis herded the younger children inside for the remainder of the day. Their governess would oversee their playtime when it was time to leave the library. Bucky accepted his explanation with a humble, mute nod.

Practice was just as grueling as it had been yesterday, but Bucky’s movements were sharper, cleaner, faster as he fenced and sparred. When he wrestled with the pages, he pinned and took down everyone who challenged him, time and time again. When it came to Brock, who frequently beat him due to the difference in their size, he stared up at him soberly, meeting the older boy’s grin with flinty eyes.

“Let’s see if his Majesty’s as light on his feet as ever,” he gloated. He made a waving gesture to him as Clint called the match. 

“Have at it!” 

Bucky and Brock took up their positions, right ankles together as they assumed the stance and began to grapple. Bucky grunted at the whipcord strength of Brock’s muscles, and he tightened his grip on him, ducking and feinting out of Brock’s attempt at a headlock. He punched him soundly in the ribs, making Brock’s air rush out in a surprised “ _WHOOUULFF!_ ” He tried to take Bucky down again, and Bucky landed two more against his side. Clint’s eyes narrowed as the match progressed.

“That’s dirty, Majesty!”

_So’s Brock,_ was his silent reply as he and Brock continued to circle each other. Brock tried to trip him up and finally got Bucky in a tricky hold. Bucky’s back and ribs burned as his hands abraded his flesh through his thin tunic, one of the only ones Phillip would spare him for practice. Bucky tried to shake him off, face throbbing from the pressure of being bent forward, face blooming with color from Brock’s arm shunted under his neck like an iron bar. Bucky scuffled and turned quickly, trying to shake him off his footing, and he deftly hooked his foot around the back of Brock’s knee, knocking him off balance. Bucky grunted raggedly and flipped Brock over his back, where he thudded against the dirt. Brock, dazed, stared up with stunned brown eyes, and Bucky dove for him while he was vulnerable. He landed swift, heedless punches in the center of his chest and against his angular jaw. The pages sent up cries of disbelief when they realized what was happening, but Bucky saw Brock through a haze of red, blue-gray eyes craving Brock’s fear. The vision of Steve’s bruise, and his admission that it wasn’t the only one filled him with rage. _How dare he hurt Steve. How dare he presume to lay hands on that sweet soul and sully him with his damned filthy hands._ His fists burned as they found Brock’s flesh, and he took silent satisfaction as he felt his nose crunch with the impact of his knuckles.

Clint and one of the older pages pulled him off of Brock. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving and eyes wild. He was struggling against them, even as the other boys were helping Brock up, unsteady on his feet and shaking. He raised a shaking hand to point at Bucky.

“What was that? Prince Bucky-“

“That’s what I want to know,” Clint growled. “Your Highness, I intend to take this up with your father. That’s not how we comport ourselves on my training field. Understood?” Anthony Stark, the captain of the guard, watched their skirmish with more amusement than alarm. His look was calculating as Clint herded Bucky inside.

“He had it coming,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

“That’s for your father to decide. In his drawing room,” Clint clarified, “ _not_ my training yard.” Secretly, he wasn’t that sorry for Brock; he had a bad habit of bullying and discouraging the younger pages and his shooting was sloppy. Clint had no time for that.

*

Phillip waited for Bucky in his suite, wisely ignoring his reddened eyes and the hastily dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “I’ve drawn you a bath, sire.” Bucky nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze. Wordlessly, Phillip began to undress him, collecting his clothing and folding it into a neat pile. He knelt and helped to tug off his boots, helping him balance as he stepped out of them, and he draped Bucky’s leather belt over a chair. Bucky looked miserable.

Phillip and several of the other staff heard George through the walls of his study blistering Bucky’s ears, railing on about “conduct” and “shameful displays,” and “abusing your position with the knights who will throw down their lives for you in defense of the throne.” His words stung him, but after a while, Bucky listened to them in a vacuum. His head throbbed, and his mind was focused on Steve.

“How could you lose control of yourself like that? You’ve set the worst example for the younger lads. For William,” he reminded him. Bucky hung his head in shame; his brother watched him leave the field with so much confusion written over his face, and that made fresh tears flow down his cheeks.  
“I’m sorry, Father.”

“This is shameful. Explain yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“You will.” George would brook no excuses. “There was no sportsmanship in that fight. It was dishonorable.” Although Clint grudgingly admitted that Bucky took Brock down skillfully, using the taller boy’s size against him; George wouldn’t offer him praise in place of the punishment he deserved.

“He… Brock…” 

“Tell me why Brock deserved such rash treatment, James.”

His words failed him, drying up on his tongue. Steve’s warning echoed in his ears. 

_He would ask why, why you would care for a son of a gardener, when he has so many servants who don’t cause him any trouble, and that would make trouble, Bucky. Servants, not worth horsewhipping anyone who they serve or bothering the king with rubbish._

“I had an argument with Brock,” Bucky lied, but it wasn’t unlikely enough for his father to question it. “We don’t get along, Father. I’m sorry. Brock was… bragging. I went too far.” George sighed.

“Knights are proud men, James. Boastful by nature, with the weight of the burden they take on when they accept their pledge. You will set the right example by every boy on that field to be honorable. Those boys will become knights. They will serve the crown. You will wear that crown.” George sat back in his chair and rubbed his neck. “You will be confined to your chamber for three days. No training. Clint will take William with him.” Bucky closed his eyes with fresh shame. He nodded tearfully.

“Yes, Father. I understand.”

“Good. Go.”

He left his study, chastened and practically tripping up the steps. Phillip was already there, emptying buckets of steaming water into the brass tub. Bucky stepped into it gratefully, letting the vapors envelop him. The water seemed to hug him, absorbing his sorrows, lapping against his skin as Phillip picked up a large sea sponge and began to scrub him. Bucky sighed and closed his eyes, remembering the night before, wishing Phillip’s hands were Steve’s, sliding over him with scented balm.

He wanted to cry.

*

Bucky retired to his room after a supper that found him picking at his plate until George grimly excused him. Rebecca, Fiona and William stared at him, asking silent questions with their eyes. Fiona poked him with her tiny finger.

“You’re not eating your food, Bucky. You won’t get any sweets.”

“I don’t want sweets, baby,” he assured her gently before he got up. Edwin Jarvis, the elderly, doddering butler and Mrs. Jarvis’ long-suffering husband, watched him leave with concern in his eyes, clearing away his barely-touched plate.

He tried to read, but his eyes blurred the words on the page, and he clapped the book shut in frustration. Bucky wept with remembered shame and heartbreak. The vision of Steve’s face hovering over his, of those lips kissing him back so sweetly and with so much care, so much passion haunted him, and he knew that in his desire to get back at Brock, he’d only managed to hurt Steve. Sarah and Joseph wouldn’t trust him now. They would never indulge his friendship with their son, now that it had taken an untoward turn. 

He finally climbed into bed, gradually drifting into a fitful sleep. Before his dreams could fully claim him, however, a pair of hands roused him urgently, shaking him awake.

“Your Majesty, please come with me,” Phillip urged.

“Nnnnnggghh… whuh? Wha’s wrong?” he slurred blearily as he rubbed his eyes. Phillip already lit a small lantern and was holding up Bucky’s robe for him to shrug into.

“Your father needs you. Report in his chamber, Prince Bucky.”

“Should I get dressed, then?” Bucky’s blood ran cold.

“It would be wise, your Highness,” Phillip agreed, and he went to the wardrobe to retrieve trousers, breeches and a fresh tunic. He quickly helped him dress, and Bucky strode down the corridor. George was waiting up for him in bed. Winifred was also sitting up, eyes red-rimmed and anxious.

“I need you to go with Tony,” George told him. “I need you to send word to Thaddeus that we have need of his healer.”

“Why, Father? What happened?” He grew alarmed when his mother smothered a sob into her handkerchief.

“Sarah’s taken sick. Henry has tried everything he knows, but she is declining. Thaddeus’ physician is quite gifted. He may know how to help her, but we need to move quickly.” Bucky paled, all the blood in his head draining to his feet.

“Where’s Steve?”

“With Sarah. But I need you to go _now_.” The Ross family estate was the closest territory to the Barnes’, and Thaddeus Ross was an aggressive, yet just king with a strong army. Their kingdoms enjoyed a harmonious relationship, and George knew he would treat his request with the gravity it deserved.

“Yes, Father.” Bucky headed out, and Phillip was already following him with his cloak, gloves and cap as he met Tony in the stable yard.

“It’s brisk out, your Highness,” Tony told him. “I’ve some blankets packed in the carriage.”

“We’ll go faster on horseback,” Bucky argued. 

“We don’t know how well Banner can ride a horse,” Tony reminded him. Fuming, Bucky nodded, and Tony clapped him on the shoulder. He waved to Thor, who nodded to them as he helped them inside the carriage and climbed up onto the seat. They were off, the carriage’s cab rocking gently over the bumpy terrain as they went to retrieve the Ross’ talented physician.

*

They returned with him within two hours after delivering the sealed message to Thaddeus and explaining the extent of Sarah’s illness. He had nodded grimly and sent them with his blessings, promising to be in touch and expecting his healer back at his estate within a week. Bruce packed up a small trunk of potions, herbs, instruments, magnifiers, and more items than Bucky could even identify. They were quiet on the ride back. Bucky chewed his thumbnail ragged, worried for Sarah. Petrified for Steve.

“Pleasant autumn we’re having,” Bruce offered as a distraction. Tony agreed.

“It’ll be cold enough for a nip of brandy before bed, soon enough.” Bucky huffed; for Tony, it was _always_ a good night for nip of brandy. Or a good afternoon.

“Today is the shortest day of the year,” Bruce reminded him. “During the brightest, warmest days, we’re losing light, gentlemen.”

Dread formed a hard, tight ball in Bucky’s stomach.

They reached the stable yard shortly before midnight. Thor and Tony unhitched the horses while Bucky led Banner inside, leading him immediately to the Rogers’ suite. Joseph allowed Bruce inside after a brief introduction, but Bucky wisely lingered in the corridor, not wanting to assume. But he caught a glimpse of Steve crouched at the bedside, able to see her clutching her hand; her face was obscured from his view. But Steve’s was devastated, hope warring with terror. He stroked hand gently and nodded obediently when Banner told him the supplies he would need. Steve looked up, feeling Bucky’s eyes on him, and he spared him one anguished glance. He mouthed his name silently, before his face crumpled.

Bucky fled.

He ran downstairs and sprinted out into the garden, cheeks hot, the veins in his temples throbbing a tattoo. He heard rushing sounds in his ears and struggled to breathe. “Steve,” he cried. “Steve…” He remembered a night like this, the sound of Sarah’s tranquil words, the exhaustion in her eyes as she struggled to save her son. Bucky felt so helpless. Sarah, so kind and strong, now lay suffering and on the brink… Bucky wouldn’t let his mind take him there. He couldn’t. It would ruin Steve. It would break him. 

He’d already failed him once that day. Bucky mastered himself and searched the garden, not knowing what he was looking for, until his eyes landed on the roses. His mother’s prized rosebushes, with only a few meager blossoms left, heralding their winter sleep. Bucky rushed to the ring of bushes and his hands scrambled over them, searching for an intact bloom, not withered or rotting off the stalk or gaping with exposed yellow seeds. He ignored the prickly, inconsiderate thorns that tore and snagged at his callused fingers. He searched and shifted the branches, then moved on to the next with a low growl. He kept groping and cleaving the branches apart, cursing to himself. “Just one, blast it,” he muttered.

A rose for Sarah. An apology. A promise.

He ransacked the third one and finally found it, holding up his lantern to inspect it. Bucky lifted trembling fingers to stroke the pristine petals, breathing over it in awe. It was lush and full, without one rotted leaf or hole chewed in its petals by aphids. He snapped the stem hastily, stripping the thorns as he strode back into the house.

He placed his faith in Banner’s hands, sending up silent, desperate prayers as he returned to the suite. He knocked on the door. Joseph answered it, and he stared at Bucky blankly.

“Apologies, Majesty. Is there something you need?”

“Just take this. For Sarah,” he choked. He held out the rose, and Joseph nodded noncommittally. “Please,” he whispered. “Just… make her well.”

“We’ll do everything in our power, Prince Bucky.”

Hearing those same words out of his mouth, with Steve just out of reach, feeling so helpless, sent him hurtling back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was a kid, I lived in a rental house in Cape Cod that used to have the crappiest, longest winters ever. One year, one of the crocus bulbs we had planted that fall decided to peek its head up just as the snow began to melt, but then another storm dumped down another six inches. That little crocus actually LIVED for another three days, poking up through the snow right in front of our picture window. That's a stubborn plant.
> 
> We should ALL be that stubborn plant.


	3. Nice and Tidy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve resumes his father’s role as head gardener at the castle. Bucky continues to pine, but tries to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So help me, I have NO CLUE what I’m doing, but thanks to all of you reading and commenting for sticking to this so far. I appreciate it SO much. Trying to get back to the original prompt before this goes in dark, angsty, miserable directions.

Once in a while, when no one was watching him, Bucky spoke to Sarah.

Bucky ordered the priest to light candles for her in the chapel, and fresh roses were always placed on her grave. Every night, whenever he thought of Steve, he remembered that fateful evening, when she walked in on him kissing her only son, so much shock and disappointment in her blue eyes. Even worse, they were so much like Steve’s, and seeing that hurt mirrored there was too much. Bucky’s memories painted a crueler picture of that incident, his last interaction with her before she took ill. Her burial was no less dignified and reverent than any accorded to a member of the royal family, since she served them all so well in her capacity of nurse and healer. 

“He keeps climbing up on those blasted ladders. I warn him all the time that he’ll tumble down and break his fool neck,” Bucky complained one warm evening, just as the sun began to set. “He doesn’t listen very well, that son of yours. You know that, right?” Bucky smiled. “I’m sure he gets that stubborn streak from Joseph, then.” Bucky peered past her headstone to the one a few feet away. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Joseph! No hard feelings, right?” The rustling breeze that rattled the autumn leaves stirred his long hair, and he pushed it out of his eyes in annoyance, dragging the stubborn tendrils behind his ear. “But you’d be proud. He does quality work, Joseph. Just like you did. Every blade, every leaf, neat as a pin.” Bucky smiled to himself. “That doesn’t mean I don’t still give him a hard time. It’s too much fun. And he makes it easy.”

“Sire,” Bucky heard Brock’s low call from several yards away, and he straightened, annoyed at having his reflections interrupted. 

“Some other time, then,” Bucky told both departed servants. “Thank you, for him. Always.” Bucky finally turned to face him, watching Brock hesitate respectfully before he continued his approach.

“His Majesty has called for you, Prince Bucky.”

“Then duty calls,” Bucky agreed, clapping Brock on the shoulder briefly. Bucky noticed Brock was wearing his breastplate. “Practicing with the pages?”

“Aye, sire. They’re coming along admirably.”

“Perfectly, under your tutelage.” It wasn’t flattery. Brock cleared his throat.

“By your will, sire.”

“Then, you’re dismissed.” Brock took that as his cue to stop following Bucky toward the castle. He watched him calculatingly, dark eyes hooded, and his right fist clenched.

Bucky made his way across the garden from the burial plots, feeling melancholy as he passed the statues of seraphim and cherubs that stood like sentinels, guarding his place of contemplation. Whenever he was troubled, he game to the garden, home to his happiest memories, its tranquility unspoiled by his royal duties or his family’s latest burden.

His father lay dying. The illness progressed slowly, but he was declining more noticeably as the season turned. George’s heart beat more weakly in his breast, and his body flesh was swollen, fingers puffed like sausages, even though he was slowly wasting from a reduced appetite. His skin was pale except for the florid spots in his cheeks, more withered even after four short years. Winifred was fretful but kept her roiling emotions hidden beneath a calm mask. George spent more time ensconced in his suite and seldom asked for help down to the library or the dining room anymore. Despite his court physician’s admonishments that he would decline more quickly if he indulged in his beloved tobacco, he still smoked his pipe every evening as he watched the sun set from his chaise on the balcony, wrapped thickly in blankets. No one dared to refuse the king his one vice.

Steve watched Bucky from the thick box maze at the other end of the field, pausing to wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow, scraping back his damp blond hair. He saw him leave the plot, and his heart ached hollowly, but he wouldn’t go to him or interrupt him. It wasn’t his place. Of course, watching Bucky from afar was his second occupation, if he had to be honest.

They never kissed again since that day, and their friendship’s fire dwindled from too little kindling after Sarah passed away. The memory was too bitter, their feelings too raw, and Bucky still assigned himself Sarah’s troubles too soon before her death. As much as he craved the chance to touch Steve again, to feel that wiry strength of that slight body, to frame those lean, elegant cheeks in his palms and kiss him with all of the passion he had, it was forbidden. Gossip from the staff reached the king and queen’s ears about that night, of Bucky’s gift to a dying servant, and they wondered if it was an infatuation.

If only they knew how wrong they were about the _focus_ of Bucky’s regard. George took him aside the next day in his study, pipe burning acrid plumes of smoke as he watched his son.

“I’ve heard things that I hope you will enlighten me about, James, and hopefully dispel.”

“Father…” Bucky swallowed roughly and licked his lips.

“You brought Mrs. Rogers a token. A rose.”

“I just… I wanted-“

“It’s fine to be fond of the staff, James. They serve our family, and perhaps at times, we mistake them for family, as well, when we cross that line. Boundaries are essential.”

“I didn’t… cross any line, Father, I swear it!”

“Giving a rose to a married woman?”

“Not for any other reason than to wish her good fortune, Father. I knew her life was at risk, and I only sought to extend some good will! I didn’t mean to imply anything by it. I never would! Joseph was so distraught, and poor Steve-“

“Poor Steve,” George interrupted. “Steven Rogers is burdened with the loss of his mother, and the responsibility of releasing you.”

“What? Father, what are you saying?” Bucky’s voice dropped, thickening and making his eyes prick. George sighed.

“I allowed you to befriend him. I saw no harm in it, and I appreciate the bond he has with your sisters as well, James. He has served this family more than admirably and he is a credit to his mother. Goodness is a habit with that one. But I’m not blind.” George steeled himself for a moment, wanting to word things carefully. “But you _don’t_ just see him as a friend.”

“I know his place, Father, and I know mine perfectly well. Please don’t assume that there is anything inappropriate between me and Steve.”

“Your mother and I see the way you look at him, how you linger whenever you command him. He’s not your groom, either, Bucky. He has no right, by token of his position as master gardener, then, to touch you.” Bucky paled.

Fragments of visions flooded his head. Ruffling Steve’s hair. Hearty, one-armed hugs and clapping each other on the back whenever they joked. Giving Steve a hand up whenever he tripped or stumbled, or steadying him when he was loaded down with something cumbersome, even occasionally sharing the load despite his protests.

“If you don’t wish for Steven to receive punishment, you will stop this. Steven Rogers is here to serve you, James, and for no other reason. Friendship isn’t a luxury I can allow. Set the proper example for the rest of our staff by treating Steven no differently than you would them, and exercise the right conduct. Don’t be soft. Don’t grant him favors.”

“I understand, Father.” His limpid eyes were swimming, betraying bleak rage and heartbreak.

“Swear to me that you do.”

“I swear it, Father, as your son.” He bowed his head, trying to master himself and avert shame.

“You may go,” George told him. “No more tokens, Bucky.”

“Yes, Father. No more.” He turned on his heel and left before his tears could fall. They were bitter, choking him all the way back to his suite.

*

Only two days passed before he disobeyed him, but Bucky felt justified.

Sarah’s funeral was a tidy affair, with black curtains drawn over the windows of the chapel and candles lit everywhere. The staff sat in the back pews while the royal family took the front rows. Joseph and Steven were allowed to share the pew, accorded that honor in mourning only. Both men wore somber, simple finery. Steve’s charcoal black doublet made his fair skin even paler in contrast and emphasized his red-rimmed eyes. Joseph clung to posture and composure, but his face was prematurely lined, bags under his eyes from the shock of his loss.

The service was dignified, the verses read resounding with them all. Fiona squirmed in her seat until Rebecca gave her a small kick to make her stop.

“Be good for Steve,” she hissed in her ear.

“I’m sorry,” Fee whispered back, slightly too loud. “This is sad. My dress itches.”

“Just be good, baby,” Rebecca soothed, wrapping her skinny little arm around her sister’s narrow shoulders. William sat bolt upright, no longer his brother’s miniature. Silently, he reached for Becca’s hand and squeezed it.

“It’s time for mass,” Winifred murmured to them. Steve and Joseph both stood, at George’s nod, and took the sacrament first. When they returned to their seats, Steve was shaking, and Bucky’s heart squeezed. But Bucky sat at the far end of the pew, to Winifred’s left, creating a barrier to thwart him. Pressure clogged his chest, making it hard to breathe, and his throat wouldn’t obey him, closing up with the threat of tears.

The casket was plain pine, and Sarah lay dressed in white linen, hands gently folded over her chest. Her face was peaceful, the seam of stitches holding her lips shut barely visible, death’s rictus handled artfully by the palace undertaker. The sermon was long but heartfelt, and Bucky wanted so badly to crumble, to turn time back, but the empty grave awaited, deep and hungry for lovely, kind Sarah.

The casket was closed reverently, and Steve performed his final act of love for his mother, laying the spray of flowers over it. The casket was borne out by a handful of field servants, led by Joseph. He spared Steve that burden, needing him not to take the memory of skillfully sanded, cold wood with him for the rest of his days. 

Even then, Joseph knew his own were numbered. Wracking pains in his chest woke him in the middle of the night, and they would characterize his sleep for months to come, soothed but not cured by Sarah’s clever tonics. 

Bucky’s hand shook as he tossed a handful of soil into the grave following the priest’s blessing. He watched Steve, whose expression was so bleak, and he was still shaking, breathing ragged. Bucky feared for him, knowing his heart couldn’t bear it, couldn’t handle the stress, but he bore it. He always bore those burdens, shouldered that yoke on those narrow shoulders. 

“Steve.”

Bucky heard his own voice murmur his name, then wished he could take it back, but Steve looked up sharply, broken out of his daze. His eyes pleaded with Bucky, emotions naked and raw. Steve’s hand lifted slightly as though he would reach for him, but he drew it back. Congruently, Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Winifred approached him carefully, weaving her hand through the crook of Bucky’s arm.

“It’s done. Let them grieve. They need some time to themselves, dear.”

“Yes, Mother.”

No one suggested that Steve or Joseph would help to fill in the grave with the freshly turned soil. They listened to the scrape of shovels cleaving into it, backs turned while they held each other and wept.

 

Bucky had little appetite, and George and Winifred excused him mercifully, but he felt his siblings’ eyes on his back as he left. Fee leaned in toward Rebecca, ignoring her roast lamb.

“Is he going to see Steve?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, baby,” Rebecca admitted. “Eat your supper.” Willie toyed with his own food, but the mood at the table was tense, and as much as he wanted to follow his brother – he _always_ wanted to follow his brother, he was his _world_ \- he knew it was his duty not to desert his family or their guests. The sounds of clinking silverware dwindled as Bucky made his way outside.

He found Steve at the grave. Joseph retired to their suite, sorely in need of a reprieve. The air outside was chilly. Steve’s tears felt cold and clammy on his cheeks. He stood at the edge of the plot, arms wrapped around himself. He turned at the sound of Bucky’s footsteps, and when he saw him, he released a small, strangled sound. “She’s gone,” he rasped.

“I know,” Bucky told him, voice cracking. “I know. I’m so sorry, Steve, so damned sorry-“ Steve looked so torn, arms drifting down, hands uncertain as he fought that urge that Bucky recognized from the chapel, rising, then retreating. 

“I can’t… I just… can’t…”

“It’s all right, Steve. You don’t… have to…” Bucky’s feet, and his hands refused to obey him, heart prodding him, giving him a shove toward its fondest wish. “ _Steve._ It’s all right.” He caught him in his arms, gathering him close and tight, so tight, absorbing Steve’s ragged sob in his neck. Bucky’s hands ran down his back in needy, slow circles, needing to possess Steve’s pain, caress away his anguish. Steve was shivering, hands clutching Bucky’s fine tunic, heedless that he might be wrinkling it. “I’m here,” Bucky told you. “I’m here.”

“Oh, Bucky… she left us. It was too soon. I never told her-“

“She knew. Whatever it was, all of it, she knew. She always knew. And she loved you. She will always love you, Steve.” Steve’s sobs were ragged and breathy. Streams of tears ran down Bucky’s cheeks, dampening Steve’s collar where they dripped. Bucky combed his fingers through his soft hair that still smelled like sunlight and tickled his jaw. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Steve blurted. “I don’t know how to go on, Bucky. I love her so much. She’s everything to me. Father’s ruined. He’s just so lost, Bucky.” Steve felt guilty at the familiarity, forgoing Bucky’s title, knowing it was one more way that he ignored Sarah’s edict. “Everything’s so dark, and so cold…”

Bucky swore to himself that he would protect Steve from it, somehow. Steve _did_ feel protected, safe and wrapped up snugly in the scent and warmth of Bucky. George’s words beat like a tattoo in his brain, but Bucky shoved them down, hypnotized by Steve’s halting words.

“I shamed her.”

“No, Steve. I did. It was my fault. I shouldn’t… I knew it wasn’t appropriate to seek you out like that. To touch you.” And oh, how it hurt. Bucky drew back so reluctantly, wanting to cling to him, but he settled for clutching Steve’s shoulders in his large, strong hands. Steve, just as affected, reached up briefly to swipe at the tears lingering on Bucky’s dark lashes. His eyes were so piercing and beautiful, so full of the same sadness and loss wracking Steve. “It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it won’t,” Steve said bitterly. Bucky huffed a bitter, mirthless laugh.

“I have no power over this. No power, Steve. I’m the prince, heir to the throne, and here I am! I have no choice, and- and my father, h-he said that-“ Bucky’s face crumbled and he began to sob, and Steve collected him back into his embrace, propriety be damned. He could never stand to see Bucky hurt, no matter how small the slight.

“I know what he said,” Steve shared. “Forgive me, Bucky. I’m out of turn… I deserve punishment, but I _hate this._ I hate knowing what needs to be done, knowing what I should do, but it _hurts,_ Bucky. _It hurts so much._ ”

“I have no choice, Steve.” Bucky’s voice rose in pitch, helpless and lost. Two sets of hands ran through hair and over lean backs consolingly, mapping out the terrain of their shared grief for the last time. None of the servants disturbed them, and to their credit, they suspended any further rumors, sparing the prince any more pain.

*

Bucky steeled himself on this visit to his father’s suite much as he always did, determined not to speak out of turn but unable to make promises. Winifred sat on George’s favorite chaise, partly reclined and working on her needlepoint to pass the time. His father’s skin was waxen and his nightshirt was soaked in sweat, but his eyes were bright and alert. “Ah, there he is,” George pronounced, holding out his hand in a sweeping gesture of welcome. “My eldest has been keeping himself scarce.”

“Never when you need me, Father.”

“No need to butter me up so flagrantly, James.” Bucky smirked and shrugged. “Sit.” James perched himself on the edge of the bed, to his father’s right. Winifred watched them furtively as she plied her needle, working an intricate design on the silk with the colorful threads. “We need to discuss the matter of your betrothal.”

“My… wait. My _what?_ ” Bucky was flummoxed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “My _betrothal_?”

“I heard your father clearly enough from here, sweetheart,” Winifred cajoled. “No need to make him repeat it.”

“Wungadore’s palace has already placed a bid on a union between our two kingdoms. It would unite our territories and be a strong union.”

“You’ve never wanted to deal with them before, Father.” The Barnes’ territory, which encompassed Attilan, Wakanda, and the lush Savage Lands, held the greatest trading power and strongest commerce, and the neighboring territories all coveted the profit that such a union would bring. “You don’t trust Wyndham.”

“I never said that,” George argued. “I’ve merely been _cautious_ in my dealings with him.”

“His father tried to usurp our kingdom when Grandfather sat on the throne,” Bucky reminded him. “So why consider this union now?”

“Usurp is a strong word. And times have changed. Wyndham has reached a treaty with Ross.” 

“Thaddeus Ross?” Bucky looked surprised but impressed. “He isn’t known for being flexible, or forgiving.”

“Indeed. He isn’t. But he didn’t scoff at Wyndham’s concessions. Their negotiations went very smoothly. Now, they would like us to come to the table.”

“Father, you’re talking about a betrothal. That’s a big step.” Especially with Bucky taking it, he didn’t add. George nodded, sighing.

“Your mother and I have been wanting to discuss the prospect of expanding our family for some time now. It’s your turn, son. At twenty, you’re more than old enough to take a wife.” They’d been hinting at since he was seventeen, and Bucky cringed at the memory of his mother’s not-so-subtle hints.

“You haven’t erred on the side of discretion,” Winifred pointed out, eyes pinning him. Bucky blushed, and he tried to hide his smirk but failed utterly.

“I’ve _tried._ ”

“Now you won’t have to,” George told him cheerfully. “There’s never been a better time to settle down and take a wife!”

“Her countrymen are very taken with her. She’s lovely, from all accounts,” Winifred told him. Bucky wondered whose “accounts” they were going by as they tried to convince him to sacrifice his bachelorhood. “Princess Wanda, actually the king’s adopted niece. His brother and sister-in-law perished when their carriage went over a cliff. Wanda and Pietro survived, but it was ghastly. They’re twins, by the way. Twins are a sign of good luck.” Bucky’s expression was dubious.

“Our family’s line didn’t include any bachelor kings?” he asked hopefully.

“No.” Winifred’s voice was brittle. George smirked, then coughed harshly, barking, painful sounds that shook his chest. Bucky handed him his handkerchief while Winifred reached for a damp towel where it soaked in a bowl of water to dab his brow and face. “That isn’t a tradition we plan to start now, dear.” Bucky’s shoulders sagged; surely, she couldn’t blame him for trying.

“Have you arranged a meeting?” Bucky asked.

“No! Even better,” Winifred told him, eyes lighting up. “A ball. Wyndham agreed that it would benefit both houses if we could ‘mingle’ outside of court, on a more casual basis.” Which was ridiculous, since there was nothing more formal than one of the Barnes family’s balls. This one promised to be ostentatious and tiresome as all of the ones before it. Willie would throw a fit, too, once Bucky broke the news to him that he would need to resume dancing lessons with Natasha, the children’s elocution and etiquette instructor. She was a trained dancer, graceful but intolerant of mediocre efforts. Bucky was lucky enough to own a natural gift for dancing, but years of training in fencing and fighting didn’t hurt, either. Truthfully, he didn’t wish to provoke her disapproval, either. Natasha Romanoff was a petite spitfire, with the devil’s red hair and green gimlet eyes. She frankly frightened him. Natasha had an uncanny knack for moving silently and appearing by his elbow, as though she was conjured. It spooked him every time. Her smile was innocent but didn’t fool him.

They chatted for a while longer, until his father’s fatigue drew it to an end. He sagged back among the tasseled pillows while Winifred pulled the covers up over his chest, stroking his brow and cheek lovingly. Bucky sighed as he watched them. His parents’ marriage was a harmonious one, despite their differing temperaments, but they were a strong match. Bucky wondered what would be expected of him where “Princess Wanda” was concerned. Was it even truly a betrothal, without a courtship? And why did Bucky feel like a goat being traded for two chickens?

He left his parents’ chamber in a dark mood.

*

His mood continued to spiral as the night fell, and Bucky declined his brother’s request for a game of chess. Willie grumbled under his breath and went in search of Becca instead. “She cheats,” he informed Bucky before he left. Bucky huffed. He went to his armoire and retrieved his cloak and wrapped himself in it against the night’s chill before stepping out onto the balcony. The sky was full of stars, and the torches were lit surrounding the garden while his father’s guard kept watch from the turrets. Bucky listened to the wind blow, toying with the tree’s branches and making the grass ripple. The garden was pristine, reflecting Steve’s careful hand in every planting and cut. The fragrance of roses was already gone for the rest of autumn, and Bucky missed it keenly. Bucky glanced to his left and from several yards away, he saw his parents’ balcony, empty, and that gave him a pang. His father’s illness was progressing more quickly, and if he wasn’t going to enjoy his pipe, then that meant-

The gravity of it seized him, wrapping itself around him tightly, and he felt himself choke up. _His father was dying._ Bucky wasn’t ready for the mantle of responsibility that his father wore; he would _never_ be ready for it. He didn’t have the patience and level head that the throne needed, and the thought of a future without his father’s counsel and warmth petrified him. Steve bore the loss of both of his parents, yet he continued on with his life, never complaining, endlessly patient and dedicated to his monarchs. Steve wouldn’t be wondering how to back out of an unwanted betrothal, certainly.

He was almost painfully shy around women, Bucky noticed. Rebecca and Fiona were the obvious exception, but every time Natasha emerged from the back patio into the garden, Steve grew tongue-tied, stuttering out words with far too many syllables and turning beet red. It was amusing, to say the least. But the best part – Bucky’s _favorite_ recollection – was the day that Natasha tried to teach poor Steven Rogers how to _dance_. “You,” she’d beckoned impatiently, snapping her fingers at him to join her in the ballroom, while he was walking past the doorway with an armload of pots. He nearly dropped them when he backed his way up to the door, staring at her in confusion. Bucky looked up from his book, where he’d perched to watch Willie’s lesson. 

“Me?” Steve was incredulous.

“Yes. Put those down. Now. Come here.”

“Erm… I need to take these –“

“I need a partner to demonstrate a quick step,” she told him. “You will do.”

Oh, but he would _not do_. Steve meekly set down his pots and approached her, posture stiff and uncertain. When she took his hands, he winced as though her touch was acid, and he had no idea where to put his hands, or drape his arms. It was awkward, and Bucky, shamefully, was enjoying every minute of it. He fought not to let his hands drift anywhere inappropriate, and she manipulated his body more to her liking, nagging him about his posture.

“Stand up straight!”

“This is as straight as it gets!” Steve’s spine was crooked, but he tipped his shoulders back as much as they would allow, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He looked so cute and so nervous. Bucky chuckled behind his hand. Steve murdered the dance, feet scoffing at his attempts not to trip and to keep time with Natasha’s purposeful humming and counted beats. 

“One-two-three, one-two-three…” After a half an hour, she gave up, blowing a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “Damn it all to hell, you really can’t manage this, can you?”

“May I go back to my pots, please?” he asked weakly, eyes darting to the exit. She waved him on, then threw up her hands. Steve made his eager escape, but not before he gave Bucky a look of betrayal, _Why on earth didn’t you save me_? Natasha resumed Willie’s lesson, even though he protested loudly now that Steve wasn’t there to distract her.

 

Bucky missed him so much. So often, he wished he could seek him out and confide in him like he used to, listening to his soft, sweet, rumbling voice, leaning elbow to elbow against the balcony rails – secretly – as they looked up at the stars. Bucky pitied himself so much in that moment, feeling so lonely, shouldering the burden of his father’s illness, and the loss of kind, patient, lovely-

“There’s better ways to water the lawn, y’know,” Steve called up to him. Bucky only then realized that his tears were rolling freely down his face. “And that _is_ my job, for that matter.” Bucky gave him a bleak smile.

“Steve!”


	4. If Wishes Were Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve continue to struggle against what’s between them. Bucky meets his fiancée.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is usually where I would announce “The plot thickens!” Usually. There isn’t much of a plot. I still love the Tumblr prompt that lead to this, though. These two love each other. And there’s a lot of gardening. That’s about it. Thank you for supporting it so far.

Steve smiled up at him from where he stood on the ground, rubbing his nape awkwardly. “Good evening, Majesty.” He kept his tone light, but it made him ache to see his Bucky’s bleak look and damp cheeks. “Nice night for a walk?”

“I’ll be right down.” Bucky hoisted himself up over the balcony rail, and Steve’s eyes widened.

“You could just go down the stairs… no! Blast it! BUCKY, someone might see!” Steve’s voice was an angry, loud whisper, and he glanced around the garden, hoping that none of the guards were in the vicinity to see their crown prince scrambling down the ivy-covered trellis from two stories up. But Bucky was quick, nimble and strong, accomplishing the feat as easily as he did when they were but striplings sneaking off with George’s brandy and pipe. When he was two feet from the ground, he jumped down to meet his master gardener, who looked distressed. 

“What’s the matter… Bucky?” Steve found his arms full of Bucky, who had nearly bowled him over. “It’s all right… what’s wrong? Please, tell me!” Bucky’s entire body thrummed with tension, and Steve felt hot tears drip down onto his neck. He stroked his back firmly, soothingly. “It’s all right…”

“It’s not all right.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse and muffled. “It’s not, Steve. I’m betrothed.”

Steve’s heart plummeted, then shattered. His breath caught, then he swallowed down a lump. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, Bucky,” he told him gamely, and he carefully, reluctantly pulled back. Steve schooled his face into calm lines and wiped away Bucky’s tears. “Heirs to the throne don’t cry,” he reminded him.

“Damn the throne,” Bucky rasped, shaking his head. He released Steve and threw up his hands, and Steve felt bereft without Bucky’s contact and heat. “I know he’s dying, and I know what my duties are, he’s beaten them into my head for so long, but, Steve! _Marriage._ To a woman I haven’t even _met._ ”

“There won’t be a courtship, at least?” Steve asked softly.

“Of course not. I’m not marrying for love, obviously,” he told Steve as though he was a child. “It’s an arrangement between our territories; marriage to Princess Wanda will unite our kingdoms. Father says it will help us maintain peace.” 

“I didn’t think we were at war with Wungadore,” Steve mused. “Your grandfather signed a treaty.”

“Father thinks a more binding union will solidify it. Nothing’s more binding than a royal marriage,” Bucky said ruefully, wiping his damp nose on the sleeve of his tunic. “Lord, I hate this.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end of the world,” Steve told him. “You never know. Marriage might be good for you. She might be just what you need.” They exchanged a long, searching look.

“Don’t lie,” Bucky growled under his breath. “We both know that she won’t be _at all_.”

“I’m _not_ lying.” Steve’s blue eyes were clouded with sadness. “I _wouldn’t_ lie to you, James Barnes.”

“Then… then you think-“

“The future of the crown depends on its eldest prince taking a wife and making a strong union. _Your_ future, Bucky, and your family’s.” Steve’s tone wouldn’t brook selfishness. He reached for him, hands closing around Bucky’s wrists, giving them a firm squeeze. “Even if this isn’t what you _want_ , it may very well be what you _need._ ” Steve stared down at the ground, unable to meet the hurt and building betrayal in Bucky’s eyes. “Refusing the marriage would be unseemly.”

“What if I can’t love her? Won’t that also compromise the future of my family and crown?” Bucky asked smoothly. “What if affection never acquaints itself with duty, Steve?”

“Your affection may grow, eventually. But you have to _feed_ it, Bucky.” His hands slid down to Bucky’s fingers, and this thumbs stroked over his knuckles comfortingly. “You’re the most caring man I know, Bucky. You can make this a good match. But you have to _try._ ”

“I didn’t make this match, Steve,” he said softly. 

“If you don’t accept this match, Bucky, your parents will be destroyed. You can’t deny your father. Not now.” He didn’t tell him _Not while he’s dying._ But Bucky pulled his hands out of Steve’s sharply as though he had.

“Then tell me when I get to live my own life, since you’re sharing such worldly wisdom with me tonight!”

“You don’t,” Steve reminded him simply. “Not since you were born. Not the life you were born into.” Yet Steve’s heart was breaking with those words, knowing that the life _he_ was born into was keeping him just as far away from what _he_ desired most.

Bucky gave him a mulish look. “I hate you when you’re being honest.”

“Hate me over brandy,” Steve offered. “C’mon. Let’s have a nip to warm us up.” Bucky tried to maintain his frown but failed. They made their way back inside, stopped by George’s study, and purloined his stash of brandy. Bucky tucked it under his tunic and they made their way back to the garden, behind the tool shed. Bucky uncorked the bottle and took a hearty swig, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before handing the bottle to Steve. “This is hardly dignified,” Steve told him as he took a burning gulp. He coughed slightly and made a face, but delicious warmth spread through his chest and pinkened his cheeks. 

“Burns nicely, doesn’t it?” Bucky told him with a grin as he took it back from him for another drink. Steve watched Bucky’s throat work down the liquid, feeling guilty about abusing the king’s fine liquor so flagrantly, but it was justified. And the line of his taut throat, the sight of those lush red lips wrapped around the bottle’s mouth, the tip of his tongue darting out to lap up the stray drops, everything about that sight made it hard for Steve to suppress his own urges.

“That _is_ nice,” Steve agreed. His muscles and posture began to loosen and his whole mood calmed. Some of the fretfulness eased itself from Bucky’s features. “Better?” he asked hopefully. Bucky sighed.

“Slightly. If this is as good as it gets. Wungadore, Steve. Father wants a union with _Wungadore_ , of all kingdoms. I’m going to need a lot more brandy.”

“Ridiculous. Your father has a strong kingdom himself. You’re joining with them, not bowing down.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Bucky wondered aloud. “Why our house? Why not join with Ross?”

“What? Let the princess marry his daughter?” Steve jibed, brows drawing together.

“No, dunce. Wanda has a twin brother. He could certainly marry King Thaddeus’ daughter. They’ve already reached a treaty, according to Father.”

“Maybe the treaty was enough,” Steve mused. “And you haven’t met her yet.”

“No.” Bucky took another searing gulp, grimacing.

“She could be horse-faced with enormous feet,” Steve considered. “Or have a big wart on her nose.” Bucky leaned over to box Steve’s ear but missed when his gardener jerked back, grinning at him. 

“You would poke fun, Steve?”

“If she’s horsey-looking, all the better for mounting in the bedroom…”

“Steve! Lord, that’s awful!”

“We’ll leave a saddle in your wedding suite-“ 

Bucky’s eyes grew round, and he looked completely appalled. “Oh, Rogers, that’s _it_!” Steve cackled and was up on his feet, darting away from Bucky’s balled up fist. Bucky hastily re-capped the bottle and was up and running after his friend. Steve booked toward the boxwood hedge maze on the north corner of the estate; the edge of the ground were lit with torches, and the sky was full of stars. “Oh, no you don’t, you sorry bastard!” Bucky called after him. Steve answered him with whinnying sounds – damn it, Steve! – as Bucky gave chase.

“That’s what you’ll hear on your honeymoon!” he teased, huffing and panting, and laughing when he drew breath at all. His lungs burned, and his strides were jolting and uneven, but it was worth it.

Bucky was _laughing_. He almost caught him once, but Steve wove and ducked, taking the left turn in the maze. Steve was smaller and weaker, but he moved surprisingly quickly, and ever since they were children, he could wedge himself into the tightest of hiding places when the occasion called for it. He used that to his advantage now, certainly, as he raced more deeply into the dark, twisting path. He backed himself into a hollow dip between two shrubs, trying to muffle his ragged breathing between snickers.

“You can’t hide, Rogers! I’ll catch up to you… you’re a _dead_ man…” Bucky was out of breath, too. Steve would mark it up to the brandy. He squelched the sounds trying to scratch their way out of his throat, chest aching from holding his breath. He heard Bucky turn uncertainly, steps changing direction, then racing away from Steve. Steve huffed a laugh and emerged from his hiding place, running in the opposite direction. “HEY!”

“You’re slow as molasses, Barnes!” he heckled as he ran. But he was running toward the torch light, and the faint glare it through blurred his vision, and he didn’t see the root protruding out of the ground until it caught his boot. Steve went down with a yelp, face-planting against the cold, unforgiving ground. Bucky saw him fly and sprawl in a flurry of limbs.

“AHA!”

“Ow…” Steve groaned and leaned up on his elbows, the lower half of his face smarting and stinging. “Blast it, Bucky!”

“I didn’t lay a finger on you. You tripped,” Bucky reminded. “I didn’t even have to trouble myself. You’re a bigger danger to yourself than I could ever be, Mister Rogers.”

“It’s my calling in life to entertain my future king,” Steve assured him, but he was wincing and tenderly probing his lips. Bucky’s eyes widened and his smile dropped when he saw that he was bleeding. A little jolt of fear twisted his insides.

“Oh, Steve… damn. You’re my gardener, not my jester. That looks awful.” Bucky knelt by him, gingerly examining him as Steve sat back on his haunches. 

Steve touched his lip again and frowned. “Ouch… now I look like your whipping boy.”

“Funny. So funny.” Bucky tsked and pulled him up, dusting him off with gentle hands.

“Bet you don’t remember the way out, do you?”

“I wasn’t in a hurry to leave until you went and hurt yourself.” Steve’s breathing was still labored. “Are you all right?”

“Just… dandy,” he told him, even though his chest felt horribly tight. 

Bucky was concerned. “Inside, then. That cut’s nasty, Steve.” He didn’t add that he didn’t like the way Steve sounded, his breathing whistley and loud. They headed back upstairs, muffling their steps as they passed George and Winifred’s suite. It was late, and soon it would be time to retire. Steve was up with the sun every day, starting his chores before the rest of the household woke, and he didn’t like to keep late nights. They headed to Steve’s room, his alone now that his parents were at rest. Steve staggered limply inside and began rummaging through his shelves.

“I’ll get you some water,” Bucky told him.

“No, I have some here,” Steve told him as he reached for a tiny jug. Bucky took it from him and poured some into a small bowl. He found one of Steve’s small rags and dipped it, wringing it out and nudging Steve into a chair. Bucky found the book of matches he knew Steve kept on his escritoire and he lit one, then went around the room lighting Steve’s small array of beeswax candles. Sarah made them herself, and some of them were infused with herbs and fragrant flower petals. They emitted an earthy, soothing scent. Their flickering light illuminated their faces as Bucky waited on Steve.

“Head up,” Bucky ordered quietly. He took Steve’s chin in his hand and angled it so he could see his lip, puffy and glistening with a sharp gash. 

“Ow!” Steve complained as Bucky swabbed the cool, damp rag over his skin. 

“Sorry…”

“Stings.”

“Is there anything you want me to put on it?”

“I can do this myself, you know. My mother _was_ a _nurse_ , if you recall.”

“I adored your mother, Steve. She was a saint. But she raised a foolish son,” Bucky scolded, but his voice was fond. 

“There’s a numbing ointment on that shelf, in the brown jar,” he told Bucky. Bucky let go of him and retrieved it, unscrewing the lid and dipping his finger into it gingerly. He daubed a smear of it over the raw cut, and Steve winced, then sighed with relief.

“I’ll have a fat lip in the morning,” he grumbled.

“Goes with your fat head,” Bucky consoled. Steve kicked him, and he fought not to smile because it hurt too much.

“Does Wanda know about your winning personality yet? How charming and tactful you can be?”

“She will soon enough,” Bucky sighed. “Charming… ugh.” Bucky re-capped the ointment and sat on Steve’s bed, feeling the rushes sag underneath his weight. “Oh, this is comfier than I thought it would be…” He sagged back onto it and sprawled, grinning up at Steve. “Oh, this _is_ nice.”

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“You won’t extend your hospitality to your sovereign ruler?”

“You expect my hospitality, oh Prince of Winesacks?”

“I _demand_ it,” Bucky told him haughtily, tucking his hands behind his head as he let it drop back into the pillow. He groaned in contentment and exhaustion.

Steve’s gut clenched at the sound, captivated by the sight of him laid out and loose _in his bed._ “You’re incorrigible, Bucky.”

“That’s _Prince_ Bucky to you.” Steve snorted in disgust. 

Steve got up, only realizing once he’d finally sat down how tired his legs felt. He extinguished two of the candles with a small, narrow-stemmed brass horn, thinking to let Bucky rest if he honestly wanted to. “Your own room would probably be more comfortable,” Steve told him.

“It wouldn’t. It will simply be emptier.” Steve sucked on his lower lip, hating that he had salve on the upper one. His mouth was dry and he felt a little shiver run up his spine at Bucky’s words as their meaning sunk in.

“Could you not wear your filthy boots, then?” The boots in question were currently propped on the bed along with the rest of Bucky.

“They wouldn’t be filthy if someone would shine them for me,” Bucky countered.

“I’m not your bootblack.” But Steve reached down and tugged on Bucky’s boot, carefully prying and maneuvering it off. Bucky groaned in relief as his toes were freed, and he wiggled them at Steve.

“Bless you. Don’t forget the other one.”

“Because I’m in the habit of walking around in one boot myself,” Steve deadpanned. “I won’t forget. I promise.”

“See that you don’t.” Bucky made a ridiculous sound of rapture at having his other foot bared. “Oh. That’s _nice_.”

 _Think of other things, Steven Rogers. Puppies. Flowers. Cold baths._ Anything but how luscious and deep his voice sounded or the laxness of his features. He set down Bucky’s boots and clenched his hands against the urge to touch him.

“Am I to sleep on the floor, then? Or perhaps the gardening shed? Or the stables?”

“Should be all nice and shoveled out,” Bucky said, yawning. “Or I could just move over a little.” He did just that, turning to his side and patting the space. He gave the pillow a little fluff. 

“Bucky…”

“You’re worn out. You’ve had a long day. Now come and finish tucking your sovereign into bed.”

“This is unseemly…”

“Lock the door, Steve.” 

“Bucky…”

“ _Please._ ” Bucky leaned up onto his elbow, staring at Steve with so much gravity and need, eyes dilated and gleaming in the candlelight. “Lock the door, and come here, Steve.”

Steve couldn’t – wouldn’t – argue with his prince. He went to the door and took the key from his pocket, then turned it in the lock until it clicked. He set the key down on the escritoire with a shaking hand. The warm, pleasant blur from the brandy faded, leaving behind caution and unease, but also arousal so powerful that he ached with it.

“Lay with me?” Despite his teasing earlier, Bucky’s voice was plaintive now, truly a question instead of a demand.

“Just… just let me take my boots off,” Steve stammered, and he sat on the edge of the bed furthest from Bucky, as though one touch would burn him to cinders. He gave him his back as he fumbled with his boots, hastily jerking them off. “Don’t want you on dirty sheets…” Halfway through removing the second one, he felt a hand curl around his shoulder, strong and warm, and Steve shivered, closing his eyes.

“You don’t have to coddle me.”

“By token of your birthright, Bucky, yes, I do.”

Bucky shook his head. “Rubbish.” Bucky was sitting up, staring at him with an intensity that made Steve swallow a lump. Steve regretted the loss of his warmth when he withdrew his hand and slid off the bed.

“What…?”

“Give me that.” Bucky knelt - _knelt_ \- down before Steve and worked on his second boot. 

Steve flushed. “That’s… Bucky. You shouldn’t…” Steve exhaled gustily, lips tight, and his cheeks were flushed. “You’re above my station. Get up, please!”

“I’m just helping you with your boots.” Bucky deftly gripped the boot and worked it off of Steve’s foot, then removed the coarse stocking. He shot Steve an amused look, eyes twinkling. He kneaded Steve’s foot, rubbing his long, slender toes and making a sound of sympathy over a callous when he found it. “All day on your feet,” he mused. “All work and no play.”

“Keeps me out of the stocks,” Steve reminded him, but his mouth stuttered on a low gasp when Bucky’s fingers found a tender spot and gave it firm pressure. His entire body relaxed and he leaned back on the heels of his hands, eyes drifting shut. “Your hands…”

“You like this?” Bucky’s voice was smooth as silk.

Steve nodded, licking dry lips. “Yes.” He sounded hoarse with desire. He opened his eyes. “Bucky… we mustn’t.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” He gently released his foot and eased back onto his haunches. “Truly?” Those eyes, so much like liquid diamonds, probed Steve’s, pleading with him. “I wouldn’t make you do something you didn’t want.”

“Even though you can,” Steve said softly. 

Bucky swallowed, shaking his head. “No. Never.”

“Bucky, your mother and father would not want this for you. I’m your servant. And you’re betrothed to a princess. As you very well should be.” Steve stared down at his hands, anything not to see the hurt shining in Bucky’s eyes.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m… beneath you.”

“ _What?_ ” Irritation swept through Bucky. He took Steve’s hands. “Look at me. Steve, _look at me._ ” Steve shook his head, trying to push back the hot prick behind his eyes. And, damn it, Bucky’s hands were so strong and warm, calloused from handling a sword. “Steve. _Steve._ Listen to me and believe me when I tell you this.”

“Yes, sire?” Steve deadpanned miserably.

“There is only one way that you could ever be beneath me.”

“How?”

“When you’re lying on your back.”

“Wha- _mmmmphh…_ ” Bucky’s eyes were dark with want when he closed in on his childhood friend and possessed his mouth, kissing the breath and sense out of him. Steve’s eyes drifted shut, and he sighed into Bucky’s mouth, yielding to his sweet heat. Bucky knelt between Steve’s knees, sliding his hand up to cup Steve’s cheek, while his other arm hemmed him in, draped loosely around his slender waist. Steve was eager, responding to him with reverent, hesitant touch, resting his hands on Bucky’s broad shoulders. Even through his fine linen shirt, his skin felt hot. Steve felt the heady rush of pleasure wash over him, touching Bucky, hearing the low sounds formed by that deep, luscious voice, smelling the masculine tang of his skin and hair, and he didn’t object when Bucky urged him to open for him, letting his tongue lick tentatively into his mouth. Steve’s body’s wants overruled the voice of common sense urgently whispering in his head. His heart argued back, This is Bucky. _This is Bucky._ Steve hooked one of his calves around the backs of Bucky’s thighs, and the momentum carried them both back, until Steve was, indeed, lying on his back and wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

 _I can have this. Just for a moment._ It was a stray thought shared between the two of them as they communed and kissed, just savoring each other. Candlelight licked over Steve’s skin and burnished his blond hair, making him so beautiful that Bucky couldn’t process how he became even more appealing, just from that soft glow. Steve’s body beneath him was all bony angles, almost devoid of fat, but Bucky’s muscular contours fit up against Steve’s planes and hollows like he was made for him. The kisses grew more urgent and hungry while their hands plucked at each other, stroking, groping, seeking out heated skin beneath collars and shirt hems. Bucky paused, reluctantly pulling back from their kiss, and his fingers trembled slightly when he traced Steve’s cheek. 

“Bucky…”

“I know. We shouldn’t. Damn it, Steve.” He stroked Steve’s hair back from his brow, just for the pleasure of touching him. Steve sighed gustily and leaned up to kiss him, chaste and sweet.

“It’s too tempting to lie beside you and want more of what you just gave me.”

“You aren’t making me leave, are you?”

“No.” Steve smiled guiltily. “That would make me a horrible host.” Bucky grinned back, then kissed him slowly. Steve cupped Bucky’s face in his hands, stroking over the fine dark stubble.

“Good. Because I am rather tired, Steve. And I could easily use you for a pillow.”

“If your plan is to sleep, then you may use me,” Steve murmured. Bucky heard the words _you may use me_ and his mind went in sinful directions until Steve poked him. “If you plan to _sleep,_ Bucky.”

Bucky smiled into Steve’s neck, and then he kissed it before rolling off of him. Steve felt bereft, until he saw that Bucky got up to strip down for bed, stopping when he reached his drawers. He hung his tunic and trousers over the chair. Steve’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. A handful of years had passed since he saw him bare from the waist up, and Bucky was stunning. Steve hesitated, then sat up to begin undressing himself, turning his back to his friend. His fingers hesitated on the lacings of his shirt, suddenly shy at the prospect of Bucky seeing him. 

“Don’t hide.” Bucky’s voice was a soft brush stroking over Steve’s nerve endings. “Making me hunt for you in the maze was enough of that for tonight. Let me see you.”

“There isn’t much to see,” Steve scoffed, until he felt Bucky’s hand wrapping around his, stopping him. Steve felt the rushes beneath him sink down from Bucky’s weight, shivering at the warmth of him against his back. Bucky reached around him and slowly untied the lacings, parting them, exposing Steve’s chest.

His words misted over the side of Steve’s neck. “I want to see.” Steve’s breath caught as Bucky’s fingers grazed his sides, gathering the hem of his shirt and carefully pulling it up, deftly stripping him. Steve closed his eyes, imagining that Bucky saw him the way he saw himself. Slight. Bony. Crooked… his spine owned an S-curve that only grew more prominent as he matured. The palace physicians attempted to straighten it out with bindings, weights, potions, to no avail. His expression was a rictus of shame. _He sees me. He sees everything. He won’t want me, and he’s marrying a princess-_

Soft lips brushed over the crest of his bare shoulder. Gentle hands held his upper arms as the slope leading up to his neck was mapped out with kisses. Bucky painted his smooth skin with warm breath, nuzzling his throat, and Steve shivered with pleasure. “ _Bucky._ ” Was that desperate, breathy sound Steve’s voice? “We… we can’t…” Bucky paused, and Steve hated himself a little at the sound of Bucky’s deep sigh. He rested his chin against Steve’s shoulder instead, and he wrapped his arms around him, enveloping him. Steve’s arousal calmed, and he felt grounded and safe.

“I know. Damn it, Steve. I know.” Bucky’s arms tightened around him. Steve expelled the breath that he’d been holding. “It’s so hard to want you… and I want you so much…”

 _But I can’t have you._ The unspoken words still drove a wedge between them. Steve remembered the day that Sarah found them, how she told him the painful truth and warned him away from the path to punishment. He remembered the fear in her eyes, mingled with disappointment, and oh, how it hurt. Even on her death bed, eyes delirious and shining with fever, she gripped his hands, desperate that he heed her. 

_”Remember what I told you, darling.”_ Never forget who he is. Or who you are. _”Serve this family well. But remember that you can only serve them…”_ Her coughs interrupted her before she could offer any further caution. Steve kissed her and held her hand before Bruce and the palace physician shooed him aside to administer their treatment. Steve’s heart was stubborn, not caring one lick about caution, but he wouldn’t sully his memory of his mother’s words or go forth foolishly into something that could hurt Bucky’s future. His hands were just as foolish, craving the firm line of Bucky’s jaw, the softness of his hair. Steve cradled his face close until their cheeks touched.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Steve mused.

“I need to hold you.” Steve nodded, and he turned his face into Bucky’s chaste kiss. It was so hard to walk that line, to cling so desperately when Steve knew he had to let go. Bucky’s arms released him, and Steve stood up and removed his trousers, simply letting them drop. He turned down the covers as he had watched Phillip do since he was a child, and Bucky climbed in, resuming his earlier place, eyes no longer teasing. But he opened his arms to Steve, and he curled himself in Bucky’s embrace, face pressed into his heartbeat.

*

Bucky was as good as his word. He held Steve through the night, and eventually, much as he promised, he ended up using Steve as a pillow. Steve woke to Bucky’s shallow snores and the sight of his tousled head laying on his chest, drooling unchecked. Long, dark lashes fanned over his cheeks, deep pink lips open and slack. He was absolutely adorable, and Steve was loathe to wake him, but the dawn light was creeping inside through the shutters’ crack. 

“It’s time to wake up, your Highness,” Steve murmured. “Apologies, Bucky. Wake up, now. Please.” He gave him a gentle shake, kissing his brow. “Up you get.” Bucky smacked his lips, arm spasming around Steve’s waist before his hand found his face.

“S’too early.” Bucky yawned and squinted up at Steve.

“Good morning,” Steve told him anyway. Bucky sat up reluctantly, swiping at his face, wincing as he found the track of drool down the side of his chin. “Thanks for the bath,” Steve teased as he mopped the damp spot on his chest with the edge of the blanket.

“Ugh… how much did we drink?”

“We emptied your father’s best bottle,” Steve admitted. “But I think you needed it.”

“Feels like I was hit upside the head with a flail.”

“Don’t you have a training session after breakfast?”

“Don’t remind me.” He leaned down to kiss Steve, morning breath and all, but Steve still sighed in contentment.

“Go. Phillip will be overwrought that you never made it to bed.”

“He won’t be surprised, when he notices that one of Father’s bottles is missing. He can put two and two together, Steve.”

“It still won’t do to have anyone seeing you leaving this room.” Looking deliciously tousled and drowsy, Steve didn’t add. Bucky left the bed and jerked on his clothes, all except for his boots. Those, he carried under his arm, knowing the best escape was a quiet one. “When will you meet your bride?”

“Far too soon. Mother is preparing a ball.”

“Those usually take weeks to plan,” Steve reasoned.

“Father wants to do this quickly. We may well be hosting Wungadore within a fortnight.”

Steve’s heart felt like lead.

“I’ll see what we have for flowers for the centerpieces, then.”

*

It turned out Bucky didn’t even have a week.

George took breakfast in his suite, only managing meager nourishment of toast with honey, tea, and a soft-boiled egg. Bucky gave Phillip his order for some coddled eggs, bread and jam briefly, accepting his manservant’s nod as he backed out of the room. George handed Bucky the scroll, its red wax seal already broken.

“That,” George told him, “is the latest communication from your future father-in-law. Wyndham and your bride will arrive here within five days.” Bucky’s heart sank.

“Truly, Father?”

“Indeed.” George stirred more honey into his tea. “Don’t look so down in the mouth, lad. This will be a beneficial union. I’ve heard tell that Wanda is lovely.”

 _No warts?_ Bucky thought sourly. “One cannot always believe rumors, Father.”

“They’re often derived from truth. Wyndham’s son will accompany them as well, as his emissary. You met Pietro when you were both children, once. Interesting lad. Seemed intelligent enough.”

“I don’t remember him well.” Bucky didn’t remember him at all.

“He was fostered out for a while, and he was to cross-train with our pages, but Wyndham changed his mind and sent him to Ross.”

“Perhaps it was just as well…”

George gave him a long-suffering look. “I hope you have no plans to challenge my decision, son of mine.”

“What kind of son would I be?” Bucky retorted. “What kind of man do you think I am, that I would act against your wishes, Father?” His jaw was tight and hurt shone in his eyes. “Have I ever shamed you so much that you have so little faith-“

“Never, James.” George reached for Bucky’s hand, and his father surprised him with the amount of strength left in that grip, despite the arthritic knuckles and withered skin that revealed the bumpy outline of his veins. The hectic rush of doubt and hurt calmed down with his father’s touch, and he felt grounded for a moment. “I could never feel shame toward you, unless you truly lacked honor or decency. I love you, Bucky. Have I ever told you that?”

Bucky’s eyes pricked, and he offered him a wobbly smile. “You can now, if you like, Father.” He leaned over, being mindful not to knock over his father’s breakfast tray, and he embraced him, knowing the opportunity was precious.

“I love you, and I want the best for you.” Bucky nodded against his neck, mastering the urge to cry. He sighed deeply, giving his father’s shoulder a fond pat as he released him. Bucky thought back to the night before, of holding Steve, and shame bloomed in his gut. If George knew… oh, if he only knew. His desire for Steve was forbidden, sinful and destined him for true anguish when he married someone who he knew in his soul that he couldn’t love anywhere near as much.

“When is the ball, Father?”

“Two days after they arrive. Your mother already commissioned the seamstresses a week ago,” George huffed. “She’s in a dither.”

“Becca and Fee will be beside themselves,” Bucky muttered. His sisters loved new gowns. 

“But, go ahead. Read that.” George reminded him of the scroll. Bucky unrolled it and scanned it briefly.

“Is this… a trade agreement?”

“It’s the tentative contract for your marriage. It isn’t valid until you give it your mark and seal.”

“This gives us control of Wyndham’s territories?” Bucky furrowed his brow. “We’ll have access to the Wakandan mines?”

“Aye.” George looked very smug. “The weapons from Wungadore’s forge are without compare. Swords that never shatter and that cleave through anything!”

“And the Savage Lands?”

“Wyndham has already appointed his dukes. I’m due to meet with Lord Ka-Zar, as well. He’s a man of outlandish ideas, but he owns a strong character.”

Bucky read over the stipulations and codicils, getting up and laying the scroll down across the heavy oak table in the corner. “Father, do marriage contracts usually stipulate what happens to the territory in question if the prince expires before producing an heir?”

George quirked his brow. “Pardon?”

“Have you read this in its entirety?” He handed his father his reading spectacles. George then took the scroll back, and Bucky pointed to the paragraphs toward the bottom.

“The contract between the representatives from the two kingdoms, henceforth referred to as the Royal Princess Wanda Barnes nee Maximoff, and the Royal Prince James Buchanan Barnes, will remain valid and will entitle the Barnes family and estate control of the lands and assets of Wungadore and its combined realms.

However, in the event of the untimely demise of the acquiring kingdom’s representative, the Royal Prince, before the union detailed in this contract has resulted in a succeeding heir, the control of the Wungadore lands will return to the Wyndham family and estate. This will in no way nullify the treaty, so long as the Barnes estate acknowledges and accepts the conditions of this contract…” George read aloud. He continued to scan the document. “Interesting, indeed. Rather wordy, isn’t it?”

“Aye, father, it is.” Bucky chafed at the words “untimely demise.” Who on earth put that into a marriage contract?

“I will have Nicholas review this,” George decided. His royal advisor was patient about reading between the lines of binding documents and pacts that passed through George’s hands. 

“Yes, Father.” Bucky felt unease settle over him like an itchy cloak.

*

The preparations for the ball went as expected. Bucky found himself accosted by the village tailor, who took all of his measurements, and by Winifred, who clucked over him for hours, sorting through fabric and color choices, holding selections up to his face to see how well they emphasized Bucky’s eyes. Willie laughed at him from the corner of the room, until it was his own turn. Then he pouted just as much as his brother, glaring resentfully at Bucky as he made his escape.

His sisters were exhaustive in their enthusiasm, but he couldn’t blame them. Rebecca would be old enough for suitors soon, even if he wouldn’t admit it to her personally. Her twelfth birthday passed a fortnight ago, but the most that her parents offered to celebrate it was a modest family supper in lieu of the garden party she usually had. She knew her brother’s upcoming wedding would drain her parents’ time and resources, and that it was not wise to insist on anything more elaborate for herself. Bucky, on the other hand, had secretly gone to the village to commission a beautiful gold bracelet for her. Becca squealed over it and hugged him almost painfully; he noticed with a slight pang that he didn’t have to lean down to embrace her anymore. Becca and Fee practiced with Natasha, diligently working on the steps of the elaborate reels, even if no one asked them for a turn around the floor, and Mrs. Jarvis gave them refreshers on etiquette and decorum. Bucky suppressed the urge to laugh at the sight of both girls walking across the room with books on their heads to check their posture.

Soon enough, Natasha cornered Bucky and dragged him into the ballroom. 

“I have to meet the pages in the training yard!” he insisted.

“Likely story,” Natasha muttered. She reached out and savagely tweaked his arm, right above his elbow, and she levered him into the ballroom as he blistered her ears with complaints.

“Ow! OW! What… you _dare_ to handle your sovereign in such a callous manner?!”

“Quit being such a baby,” she nagged back. Natasha’s green eyes lacked sympathy. Her lips curled in a smirk. “Someone has to whip you into shape, Prince James.” She tugged him into the center of the floor and held up her arms, beckoning him forward. “Hand on my waist. Eyes up. Straighten that spine, your Highness. It’s as crooked as your gardener’s.”

Bucky glared. “Take that back. Never talk of Steve to me like that, Miss Romanova.” 

Natasha huffed in amusement, yet she was chastened. “I spoke out of turn, your Highness.” He took her hand and rested his hand on her waist, and she counted off the steps. They moved easily together out of dedicated practice, and he avoided her pet peeves, never staring down at her feet or mouthing the counts along with her.

They went through the reels again, performing the standard quadrilles at first, but then launching into the quick step that Bucky loved, even though there was no guarantee that Wanda would even be familiar with it, let alone willing to join him for it.

“So. You and the gardener. What’s the story behind that?” They were swiftly trotting and one-two-three hopping, then changing directions when she fired her shot. “He’s been moping like a jester in stocks for days, now.” Bucky tripped in surprise, then forced them to a stop, looking at her in irritation. “You don’t have to tell me, but it’s like you’re admitting to it if you don’t. There’s something between you two.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We aren’t having this discussion about Steve.”

“It’s not a discussion. It’s just a question.” Her expression wasn’t mocking, which surprised him, given the nature of their friendship. She genuinely wanted to know, and she wasn’t judging him.

“Steve is fine. Everything is fine, Nat.”

“Am I pricking a sore spot?”

“You’ve just dumped a pint of lemon juice on it.”

“Sorry.” He walked away from her, heading for the balcony, needing a breather. She joined him and leaned against the edge of the doorway while he perched himself against the wall, looking out over it with cloudy eyes. “He _does_ look sad, James.”

“He’s not moping,” Bucky told her simply. Yet some tiny voice in the back of his mind poked him, wondering _Stevie’s moping over me?_ The thought of Steve sad over Bucky’s engagement frustrated him. Of _course_ it would affect his childhood companion just as strongly, if he truly felt the way that Bucky did. “He’s just as wrapped up as everyone else in the preparations. Mother’s plans have everyone in a dither.”

“You don’t seem to be,” Natasha pointed out. “You don’t seem like you’re that anxious to meet your bride, if you don’t mind my temerity-“

“Your temerity knows no bounds, Nat.” He felt her smile without even looking at her. He stared out at the beautiful grounds, knowing Steve was responsible for all of it. She joined him at the wall, leaning against it, her slender arm grazing his. As if on cue, they saw Steve striding out of the shed with his loppers and scythe. Sweat created thin, sheer spots in his linen shirt, making it stick to him. His face was gleaming from the heat of the day, and the sun and breeze toyed with his soft blond hair.

Bucky was so damned smitten. He heard Natasha sigh beside him.

“How long have you been besotted with him?”

“Natasha!”

“It’s obvious to _me_ ,” she told him. “Keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want your princess to see you making cow’s eyes at your master gardener.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, your Highness. I’m just looking out for my sovereign’s best interests.”

“I think I’m finished dancing for today.” He was just turning to leave her, until she raised an excellent suggestion.

“Arrows instead, sire?”

Bucky grinned. He gave her a curt little bow and gestured for her to precede him through the doorway. “After you, madam.”

Bucky waited for Natasha outside of her chamber while she changed out of her day dress and into the trousers, shirt and jerkin she often wore while traveling on horseback or when she practiced outside with Clint and Bucky. Since Natasha was a servant, her own family had fostered her out and had her cross-trained in several crafts. Instead of making her labor on a farm carding sheep or feeding chickens, Natasha apprenticed with the village blacksmith and King George’s sword maker, the royal stable master, and the falconer and huntsmaster. Natasha was petite and feminine, but she was no woman to trifle with, and she was an intimidating presence within the castle.

It wasn’t a commonly spoken fact, but she also functioned in the capacity as Prince Bucky’s bodyguard. Her delicate appearance didn’t make onlookers suspect that she was a skilled fighter or how vicious she could be when protecting her charge. Protecting his best interests with tart advice and insight was not what put coins in her purse, but she did that, too.

She strode out into the shooting yard in her rough clothes and sturdy boots with Bucky in tow. Steve watched them from the hedges as he trimmed them, giving Bucky a brief nod. Bucky waved, wishing he could join him and offer him a cool drink of water. He noticed that Clint was drinking from a large water sack, and he nodded to it.

“Bring one of those out to Steve.”

“Here,” Clint gestured to one of the pages, shoving the sac at him, “go fill that up and bring it out to Rogers, like a good lad.” Clint grinned at Natasha. “Come for another shooting lesson?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she mocked. “If you’re a gentleman, Barton, I’ll let you polish my boots. Hope you’ve sharpened those arrows of yours so I can best you properly.”

“So modest,” he murmured.

“And she accuses _me_ of making cow eyes,” Bucky muttered under his breath. He went to Clint’s selection of bows, testing the heft of one and the tautness of its string. “This one’s well made, Barton.”

“Just finished it, Highness. Try it out. Has a nice kick to it.” Clint went out and fixed the targets, centering them on their hay bales. Natasha went through his racks of arrows, tsking over a few with torn nocks. 

“The pages are too rough with these,” she called out to him. 

“They’re for battle, not display,” he reminded her as he returned behind the shooting line. Bucky watched Steve take the water bag from the page gratefully, gulping some down before raising it to Bucky. Bucky returned his shy smile and nodded to him before he gave Natasha his attention again, letting her select some arrows for him. Bucky and Natasha donned their gloves and leather arm guards and began shooting, and Bucky’s worries evaporated under the beating sun as he nocked and released arrow after arrow, heedless of the tiny nicks on his cheek and the slap of the bowstring against his arm. Natasha and Clint were both peerless marksmen themselves, and very few of their arrows veered far outside of the yellow bullseyes. They continued to practice until the sun began to set.

Bucky looked up as Tony entered the yard. “Sire?”

“Yes, captain?”

“You’ve guests in the courtyard, sire.” He nodded to the gloves and arm guard. “Might want to take those off, first.”

Bucky exhaled harshly. 

“Wouldn’t hurt to get familiar with a bowl of rose water and a rag right about now, either, sire. You’re a bit… ripe.”

“Duly noted, captain.” Tony wasn’t known for sparing him his tongue, either. Bucky wondered how he managed to surround himself with such cheeky staff. He hurried to his chamber, however, where Phillip already had a pitcher and bowl ready for him, as well as a fresh shirt.

“I didn’t realize you had a shooting practice scheduled for this afternoon, sire.”

“I was feeling spontaneous today, Mr. Coulson,” Bucky offered. Phillip stripped him out of the sweaty shirt and laid it on the bed, then sat Bucky down to sponge him lightly. Bucky sighed at the refreshing swabs of the damp cloth over his heated skin, nape and hair. Phillip combed out his slightly tangled locks, massaging his scalp and making Bucky groan.

“Miss Romanova put me through my paces today.”

“She has a knack for it, sire. Feeling confident about taking a turn around the ballroom with your bride?”

“More confident than I’m feeling about taking a bride, to be sure.” Phillip chuckled.

“Let’s go down and meet her first, your Highness.” He helped Bucky into the tunic and clubbed his hair back from his face, plaiting it snugly and tying it back with a black ribbon. He led Bucky to the large cheval mirror and allowed him a quick glance. “You’ll do, sire.”

“Thank you, Phillip.”

Bucky headed downstairs, and his sisters met him at the foot of the staircase, practically bursting.

“Come meet the princess, Bucky!” Fee told him as she grasped his hand and began to drag him outside.

“She’s wearing a _red_ gown,” Rebecca informed him. “Why doesn’t Mother ever let me wear red?”

“You’re too young for it.” He didn’t add that it wasn’t a color choice the ladies in court preferred, deeming it too wanton, but it was one of the colors of the Wyndham family’s royal coat of arms. Rebecca pouted.

“It’s not fair!”

“I like pink better, anyway,” Fee announced. Bucky smiled indulgently at his youngest sister. Fee adored pink. “You look nice in pink, Becca.”

“It’s not the same,” Rebecca grumbled sourly, but she petted her sister’s long plaits as they headed outside. George was already there waiting for him, propped on his cane, with Henry, his manservant, supporting him from the other side. Winifred huffed at Bucky impatiently.

“I summoned you a while ago,” she scolded. Bucky was peering over the heads of several of the servants as they surrounded the two carriages, beginning to help the passengers out. Four ladies-in-waiting stood nearby, expensively garbed, and Bucky wondered if his future wife was given to excess and being spoiled. From the rear carriage, Bucky watched two men climb out, and he sucked in a breath at the sight of Herbert Edgar Wyndham. He was younger looking than Bucky expected him to be, face relatively unlined, with thick brown hair streaked with gray. The other man was his royal advisor, a saturnine looking man with a swarthy complexion and thin build. He wore a red tunic with silver embroidery and chainmail, surprising him. He strode over to George to greet him, offering the ailing king a firm embrace, and a gentler one for the queen.

“This visit’s been long overdue, George. Winifred. You’ve a lovely home.”

“It’s lovelier inside,” Winifred told him. “Welcome, Herbert.”

“I prefer Edgar,” he shared. “Allow me to introduce you to her son and your future daughter-in-law.” And on cue, Bucky watched the footmen reach inside the carriage and take the slender, shapely hand of a tall, stunning brunette. His breath caught in his chest. The breeze played with a few tendrils of her long, thick curls of chestnut brown hair as she stepped down to the ground. Her figure was slim and curvy, and her eyes were large and luminous. 

“Her eyes look like yours,” Rebecca mused in an awed tone. “They’re almost the same color.”

“She waved to me,” Fee told Bucky proudly. That explained how the girls had glimpsed Wanda’s dress before she came outside, Bucky supposed. “I hope we’ll be friends.”

“If not, then the wedding’s off!” Bucky teased as he hugged his sister close. “Any woman I marry has to be nice to my Fiona.” He released her as he watched the second occupant of the carriage step out, realizing it had to be Wanda’s brother, Pietro. He was tall and strapping, with a shock of wavy platinum hair and icy blue eyes. His beard was trimmed short and neat, and he wore a light blue tunic, also embroidered with the family crest. Wanda smiled over at them and looped her hand through her brother’s arm, and the two of them strode over to greet Bucky.

“Good evening,” she offered in a pleasantly deep voice that stroked over him, and Bucky had a penchant for deep voices. He dutifully shook Pietro’s hand first, nodding to him. Wanda separated herself from him and gave Bucky an elegant curtsy, giving him the chance to stare at the rumored red gown. It hugged her curves, with long, lantern sleeves that nearly covered her hands and a long bliaut with a pointed hem. Her belt was trimmed in silver tassels, matching her brother’s garb, and small red satin slippers shod her feet. She wore a delicate, filigreed silver circlet over her brow, holding her hair back from her face. Bucky bowed over her hand, noticing her slight flush when he looked up from kissing it.

So far, not bad.

Steve watched from afar, knowing he wasn’t suitably dressed to greet the royal guests, and he couldn’t trust himself to remain detached and unaffected. The princess was more beautiful than he’d expected, certainly no warts or horseyness in sight. He felt his insides twist with jealousy and heartbreak.

“So be it,” he muttered as he watched the guests and family go inside. Steve went back to his scything, knowing that what he had with Bucky had come to an end.


	5. Intoxicating, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ball. A wedding. A honeymoon.
> 
> A conspiracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m mean. So, anyway… yeah.

The mingled notes of lutes, harps and flutes filled the ballroom as servers went ‘round with enormous trays of wine, ale, brandy and mead. Paper lanterns bobbed and swayed from long streamers leading from every corner of the room toward the great brass chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling. The region’s nobles and esteemed guests flocked around the banquet tables off to the side, scooping canapes onto dainty plates and fingertip napkins. George and Winifred ensconced themselves at the head table with Wyndham and Thaddeus Ross. 

The discussion was just the right side of heated, despite the after-supper brandy. George was holding his ground, his wife’s hand clasped in his lap. To the king’s left sat Nicholas, his royal advisor. He held the draft wedding contract, still unsigned, on the table before them, and his expression was grim, or rather more so than usual. He wasn’t a man known for his humor or cheerfulness, but he was calm and reasonable, sincerity living in his sole dark brown eye. The other, scarred and blind, rested hidden behind a black eye patch. 

“Surely you can understand our trepidation in honoring this agreement,” Nicholas told Wyndham. 

“Trepidation that has no place at a celebration such as this, after we have come from so far away for it,” Wyndham countered. “The contract is beneficial to both our lands, George,” he told the ailing king. George’s pallor was slightly gray, but he stubbornly puffed his pipe.

“I don’t know that it’s beneficial to my son,” George murmured. “Not,” he said, holding up his hand at Wyndham’s dubious look, “that I think you mean James any ill will.”

“Of course not! He’s a fine young man, a credit to his upbringing and his kingdom, well-trained, bright…” The elder royals watched Bucky taking Wanda for a merry turn around the dance floor, and she was laughing openly – perhaps even more than etiquette dictated, cheeks rosy and tendrils of her carefully styled hair flying wild. Bucky was twirling her into the reel, more exuberantly than necessary, and his own skin was flushed, eyes shining, practically bellowing with mirth, “… er, _proper_ …”

“Bright! He’s very bright,” Winifred pounced. She gestured to the court musicians’ band leader to play a slower selection with a throat-cutting motion, and he obliged with great gravity, stopping them mid-reel and urging them to start a sedate waltz. Bucky and Wanda stood huffing and panting, still giggly as they began the waltz, but there was still mischief lingering between them. 

Wanda wore yet another gown of stunning, scandalous red, roses and fleur de lis embroidered in white thread. Bucky wore his own kingdom’s deep blue that brought out his eyes, trimmed in red piping and tassels. His hair was pulled back into a plait that started out neat as a pin, but that frayed around the edges as the ball progressed. Wanda’s brother Pietro made the rounds, dancing with various maidens gracefully, tirelessly, but his countenance returned to one of boredom whenever he was stopped by any of the nobles. He quaffed goblet after goblet of wine, and it had little effect on his humor. 

Pietro straightened up noticeably when his adoptive uncle shot him a sardonic look, quirking his brow. Pietro then turned away, allowing an older duchess to engage him in a bland conversation about the weather and an upcoming hunt. Wyndham gave George back his attention, clapping Nicholas on the shoulder.

“I trust my advisor when he tells me that the contract leaves him, and by extension, me, with some concerns. There’s the matter of this stipulation regarding the return of Wungadoran properties and territories to your kingdom in the event of the Royal Prince’s demise – “

“Strictly a formality, old friend.”

“- yet it _also_ stipulates that the Royal Princess will also still have a claim, by right of matrimony, to the Barnes’ kingdom’s territories and properties –“

“In the event that the Royal Prince’s younger brother, the next eligible heir to the throne by birth, also meets his demise.” Wyndham threw up his hands. “Which is highly unlikely! Look at Willie! Healthy little sprout!” Who, at the moment, was trying to convince one of the servers to let him have some ale, until Winifred excused herself to correct him, steering him away from the tray in a swirl of skirts and dragging him by the ear. “They’ll no doubt have a child by the time the seasons change, George.”

“Ross?” George turned to his haughty peer, stout but strong, his face only slightly lined and framed by a short shock of white hair. His blue eyes were shrewd.

“Our houses have no quarrel, Barnes.” He nodded to Wyndham. “And our land’s treaty is sound as well, Wyndham. Our borders have been quiet for some time, now.” He didn’t take his eyes off of Wyndham as he gulped his brandy, no gentlemanly sips for him. “I hope to keep them that way.”

Wyndham and Ross enjoyed an uneasy truce, and Ross’ lands were considered neutral territory for the purpose of trade. Bloodshed between them had been frequent and long-lived until their treaty. The sealing of the treaty had been delayed by the deaths of Django and Marya Maximoff, the twins’ parents. Django was the eldest son and first in line to inherit the throne, but his two younger brothers had died of consumption during childhood. Django had been in strong favor of a treaty, with few stipulations, only interested in peace and ease of trade between their lands. However, when his first cousin, Herbert Wyndham, was named the king’s successor, his conditions were considerable. The battles at their borders resulted in heavy casualties on both sides.

“So much of this contract focuses on the ‘unlikely event’ of my son’s demise before he’s sired an heir to our family’s throne.” George drew a smooth curl of smoke into his lungs from his pipe. “I want both of our kingdoms to thrive should we unite. I’m not anxious to seal a contract that depends so strongly on unfortunate circumstances-“

“Unlikely circumstances,” Wyndham interjected. Pietro excused himself from his conversation with the duchess when he heard his uncle’s voice rise uncomfortably. He wore an ice blue tunic embroidered in silver, and his jaw-length platinum hair was pulled back from his face, emphasizing his elegant profile and hard jaw. Many of the female guests watched him with lingering, hungry eyes every time he walked past, but when all was said and done, he wasn’t there for a leisurely party. 

Pietro offered the king and queen a bow, then bent over Winifred’s hand respectfully. She smiled at him indulgently, welcoming him to sit. “You were up to here the last time we met, child,” she told him, holding her hand up in the vague vicinity of her upper arm. “How you tower over me now!”

“Time flies quickly, Majesty. It’s been too long since we last visited, and I’m as unworthy now as I was then of your generous invitation to come to your home.” 

“Ridiculous. You’re always welcome. More so now that you’re family.”

“Soon,” Nicholas corrected her gently. George’s smile was tight. Wyndham’s was perhaps less than sincere. Nicholas turned to George expectantly. “Your thoughts, sire?” Before George could speak, however, Pietro held up his hand, beckoning to him for his attention.

“Sire,” Pietro began smoothly, “It’s a rare honor that we can drink a toast at your table together instead of meeting each other at our borders, swords raised. We’ve such a long history of conflict between our lands. I’ve heard the tales, and I’ve seen my father’s scars, as well as my uncle’s.” At this, Edgar relaxed slightly, giving his nephew a careful pat. “Further war between us will benefit no one. A truce between us? That would be ideal, but it wouldn’t truly unite our lands the way that a union by matrimony would, your Majesty. A signature in ink pales compared to the joining of two hearts and heirs shared between our two kingdoms.” Pietro offered George a fond smile, his lovely dark blue eyes twinkling. “I, for one, cannot wait to be an uncle, and to have two brothers. It’s not easy being the only son.” Winifred and George chuckled, and Wyndham gave him a long-suffering look as he passed him a goblet of wine.

“Don’t believe a word out of this one’s mouth in that regard. He gave his governess apoplexy.”

“We have to believe him! He’s your emissary,” George countered. Pietro smiled over the rim of his cup. “Are you in favor of this union?” George asked Pietro. “I’m certain you want the best for your sister. I’ve always known twins to be close; she’s no doubt precious to you.”

“Indeed, sire.” Pietro’s hand tightened its grip almost imperceptibly on his cup’s stem. “I trust that her new family and her husband, should she enter into his marriage, will protect her interests and her safety.”

“That’s another stipulation of the contract, naturally,” Nicholas agreed. “Bring your attention to the clause about threat or incident of life-threatening injury or abuse to the Royal Princess, sire.”

“That will nullify the marriage contract, forthwith,” Wyndham stated smoothly. “As well as the truce. I have to protect my own.”

“We’re not a barbarous nation,” Winifred argued, and she looked appalled. “I would insist on the same consideration for anyone seeking my _own_ daughter’s hand in marriage. It goes without saying-“

“Nothing goes ‘without saying,’ Majesty,” Pietro pointed out. “Everything is spelled out in the contract, in detail. Even those details that seem like they should be given.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I know my sister will be made as welcome by your family as I have been, and more, my Queen.”

“I’ve already spoken with the bishop,” George said. “I feel we have covered my main concerns regarding the marriage contract.” He eyed Wyndham with a mixture of gravity and trepidation. “Are you ready to give your niece away in the chapel, Edgar?”

“I only regret that her father isn’t here to do it himself. It would have been his proudest moment,” Wyndham admitted. He raised his glass. “To my cousin Django’s legacy and his children’s success!” His voice boomed throughout the ballroom, and the music gradually dwindled and stopped as the assembled guests paused to turn to better address it. “To our kingdoms and our future unity and harmony, my fellow Kings Thaddeus and George, and Queen Winifred!” The servers, confused but determined to please their monarchs, began to shuffle through the crowd, handing out goblets and tankards wherever they saw empty hands, anticipating a formal, if impromptu, toast. “May our commerce together always be fruitful and worthy of praise by our neighboring lands.” Bucky stared at him in confusion and surprise, his arm still gathering Wanda close, looped comfortably around her slender waist. He spared her a glance, and she wore a similar, bewildered expression, but she offered him a smile to reassure him, which he tried to return. Wyndham stood and gestured to the couple as well, saluting them with his goblet. “May your _union_ and lives together be fruitful and blessed with the harmony and happiness that you deserve!”

Nicholas chafed and restrained the urge to fidget in his seat. “Sire?” he murmured in George’s ear as he leaned close.

“Yes, Mr. Fury?”

“His Highness is laying it on a bit thick.”

“Indeed. He is.”

“And perhaps… prematurely?”

George made a thoughtful noise as his guests raised their glasses in return, accepting the toast as though everything was settled. Low calls of “bravo!” and “cheers!” flew up from the crowd as they drank, masking their king’s awkward pause as he processed Wyndham’s performance.

There was little help for it. Everyone gathered under the ballroom ceiling arrived anticipating a wedding, and it would speak ill of the Barnes family’s attempts at a treaty with Wungadore if George expressed his doubts about the marriage contract now, before so many eyes and ears. Winifred would never hear the end of it at court. The entire business was hard for him to swallow, and he felt his chest constrict and spasm uncomfortably. Winifred reached for him as he began to cough, offering him her lawn handkerchief. She rubbed his upper arm soothingly, dabbing at his watery eyes. 

“Easy, darling,” she murmured. “All of this might be too much for you right now. It’s been a long day for all of us, with a lot to take in.”

“Let me… have a moment,” he urged, gently removing her hands and beckoning for her to give him some room. Winifred summoned a server in the meantime and ordered a glass of water for her husband to calm his irritated throat and the thickness in his chest. Wyndham and Ross looked on, watching him with concern.

“Listen to your queen. Things are generally easier when you do, old friend,” Thaddeus suggested dryly. Winifred rolled her eyes at him before returning a vestige of his smile.

“One might _think,_ ” she agreed. “

Pietro watched George try to regain his composure and catch his breath, not liking his grayish pallor and the way sweat beaded across his brow. “Do you need me to fetch your palace healer, sire?” he asked helpfully.

“He’s never far,” George remarked, and as if he’d summoned him, his physician appeared before him, crouching beside him. He quickly, gently checked George’s pulse and held his small horn against George’s chest, not wanting to draw too much attention to his king’s illness. 

“Some rest in your chamber, near a cool window where you can breathe in the night air might ease your chest, sire. Your breathing sounds labored.”

“Very well, Stephen.” The tall, swarthy royal healer beckoned to George’s personal grooms, and George stood with only slight difficulty to address his company. The other two kings stood as well to accord him respect. “Ross. Wyndham. My apologies. A formal announcement will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m certain your guests and staff already have an inkling of your decision,” Wyndham told him cheerfully. 

Pietro smiled alongside him, but his eyes looked troubled. “It would still be wise to solidify things when his Majesty has had the chance to fortify himself with some rest, Uncle.”

Bucky turned to Wanda with apologies in his eyes. “I hate to be rude, Wanda, I’m enjoying your company, but-“

“Go.” She made a small shooing motion at him. “See about your father. No sense in explaining what I can already see with my own two eyes. He hasn’t looked well for some time, now, James.” She rubbed his arm soothingly. “You’re allowed to care about your father’s health. There’s no shame in being a concerned son. _Go._ ” She felt her world tilt on its ear when he gave her such a grateful smile, his emotions naked on his face. Oh, it was so easy to like this young man…

It made her regret her part in her uncle’s plans for her that much more.

*

The rest of the ball continued on well into the night. Many of George’s guests broke away from the main ballroom and sought fresh air and quiet out in the royal garden. 

Steve sought refuge outside, not welcome at the ball himself since he was ancillary staff, not part of the cleaning or serving crews, and rather than watch the ball from the doorway – or the rafters, as some of the pages and the staff’s children were wont to do – he decided he was better off alone with his thoughts.

Watching Bucky with his new bride was just too painful. Steve felt his heart squeeze the moment he saw her enter the ballroom in her stunning red gown, more elaborate than the one she wore the day she arrived at the palace. She was graceful and she didn’t struggle with the steps of the dance, and she and Bucky were close to the same height, making a stunning pair. Steve knew he had no right to his jealous feelings, but knowing Bucky was to be married so soon – whenever George made the formal decree to the palace – left him so lonely and helpless, so _lost_.

Steve was so deep in thought that Clint’s voice nearly startled him out of his skin. “Don’t you have a pile of leaves to clear somewhere, Rogers? Get off your lazy tail and get to work!” Steve jerked from his reverie and whirled on him, making an irritated noise.

“I’d rather be raking leaves or tidying up a hedge than listening to that racket,” he pronounced. Clint was right by his elbow, and he could have their conversation without having to raise his voice. The archer’s hearing was somewhat impaired, but he was compensated for it with excellent spatial awareness and sharp vision that made him his kingdom’s best shot. Clint grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder fondly.

“Doesn’t bother me any.”

“Why aren’t you in there taking a turn around the floor?” Steve pried.

“Natasha won’t oblige me, despite my groveling in fine form,” Clint admitted.

“Ah.” Steve smirked and nodded. “Then she still has excellent taste.” He ducked Clint’s attempt to clout him. But the taller, sandy blond man sighed deeply.

“I’ll wear her down, eventually.”

“Tis a noble dream, Mr. Barton.”

“Those were lovely roses on the tables, Rogers. Someone doesn’t take their title of “Master Gardener” lightly.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be the master gardener.” The two of them mulled the peaceful night, feeling the breeze lift and ruffle their hair and clothing and listening to the low chirrs of crickets. “I’ve taken some strong cuttings and coaxed them to root. I’m going to plant them along the north wall.”

“That’ll give any invading forces a soft place to land when we shove them off, if they ever make it over the north wall,” Clint mused. Steve gave him a long-suffering look.

“Well. I’ll have availed myself to the king’s army, then, at long last. Can’t shoot an arrow or heft a sword, but that Steven Rogers can grow a fine hedge of thorns!”

“Rubbish.” Clint’s smile evaporated, and he gripped Steve’s shoulder in earnest. “That’s not what I meant at all. Don’t take it to heart. We all do our parts-“

“Do we? A child thinks it helps its elders when it shadows its parents’ tasks, only managing to get in the way. I’m the damned _gardener,_ Barton. I’m bloody useless.”

“The hell you say. You’re a good man, one of fine character and one I would trust with my life.” While Clint apprenticed with the king’s army and huntsmen, he also grew up alongside Steve and Bucky, and he often found himself in Sarah Rogers’ tender care, having minor injuries and illnesses tended. Steve had his mother’s easy smile and lovely blue eyes, as well as her intelligence and droll humor. “Never doubt your contribution to this house, Rogers, or what you mean to the family. The whole family.” Clint bent and plucked up a long weed and began to strip it of its kernels. “The royal prince, in particular.”

Steve turned on him sharply. “Barton…!”

“Save it,” Clint told him, waving him off. “Don’t get yourself in a lather trying to tell me I’m blind. I can’t hear worth a tinker’s damn, Rogers, but I have eyes.” He pointed to one, tapping the crown of his cheek. “I won’t judge you or carry tales.”

“There’s nothing to judge. It’s my life and my duty to serve my sovereigns,” Steve huffed. “Nothing more.”

“You’d like it to be more,” Clint argued. His voice was soft but stern. “Perhaps you lie to yourself that you don’t, but I can see through you like a glass bottle.”

“He’s to be married,” Steve told him, “what you are suggesting is a sin, and… and he’s to be _married,_ ” Steve repeated, irked. “Put this to rest. We won’t speak of this anymore. I could end up on the gallows.”

“Just for loving him? Because he’s a prince?” Clint shrugged, then nodded ruefully. “Aye. You probably would.” 

Steve cuffed him in the ear, making him duck away from his assault with a grin. “You’re a dreadful bastard, Barton.”

“Barton the Bastard! That’s brilliant!” Clint cheered, his blue eyes lighting up. “It has a nice ring to it… I may go by that from now on.” He shrugged and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Might not be inaccurate, either.”

“No. It’s awful, you won’t call yourself that, and neither will anyone else,” Steve insisted. 

“Call him what?” Natasha called out as she entered the yard. Clint turned and smiled, and Steve felt envious of how pleased he truly looked, how much affection for Natasha lived in his whole demeanor, plain and clear. He also hated that he wasn’t free to love Bucky that much, that openly, himself. Steve hated the entirety of who he was, so unworthy of his heart’s desire.

“Barton the Bastard,” Clint told her proudly.

She chuckled and nodded. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Coin that one yourself?”

“No. That leapt off of Steven Rogers’ silver tongue, milady.” Steve flushed and shook his head, moving away from Clint as though he could remove any association with the ribald archer.

“I’m impressed, Rogers,” she told him. 

“Please, don’t be…”

“Why aren’t you inside?” she pressed. “There’s some perfectly lovely ale. And a whirl around the floor might work up a nice thirst. It’s a night to drink and celebrate.”

“Then I won’t stop either of you from celebrating. Drink to your heart’s content,” Steve said miserably, even though he plastered on a smile. Natasha’s answering smile was shrewd.

“Don’t you wish the future king and queen harmony and wedded bliss?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Steve tossed back. 

“Why wouldn’t you?” She folded her arms and raised her brows at Clint, who rolled his eyes.

“Can we not talk about the wedding for a moment? I came out here not to have to think about it, or to listen to it, or to be in the thick of all that dancing, and cheering and nonsense…”

“It was just a toast,” Natasha told him. “His Majesty won’t make the formal proclamation until tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already begun planning the flowers for the chapel and the wedding banquet,” Steve told her. “I know my part in the wedding and what’s expected of me.”

“You want no part of this wedding,” Natasha countered smoothly. “It’s as plain as the nose on my face what you really want, despite what you think is expected of you.”

“NATASHA!” Steve turned bright red and made large, exaggerated shushing motions. “Have you _both_ gone daft?”

“Someone’s touchy,” Natasha told Clint.

“Someone’s _very_ touchy,” Clint agreed. “And feeling very sorry for themselves.”

Before Steve could even argue the point even further – or continue to incriminate himself in front of the fiery little redhead – Natasha hooked her hand through the crook of Steve’s arm and dragged him smartly toward a bench, almost making him stumble. She gently shoved him down onto it and folded her arms as she regarded him. “I know things look bleak, Steve. But it’s dreadful and dull, watching you mope and pine.”

“I don’t ‘mope’,” Steve said. “I’m not pining.”

“You mope,” Clint insisted. “The Moping Master Gardener.”

“Not bad,” Natasha told Clint, shrugging and making a “come-see, come-saw” nod.

“That was, too, bad. It was terrible, actually.” Steve was growing annoyed and tired.

“I’m going to tell you something, Steve. Something very important.” Natasha sat beside him on the bench and looped her hand back through the crook of his arm. “You serve him. It’s your duty to him, but you’re not beneath him.”

Steve exhaled a shaky breath, and he felt his eyes prick briefly. He jerked away from her, but she held onto him firmly. Natasha reached up to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Never think that for a moment. Because it’s written all over you, this idiotic idea that you have in your head that you’re not good enough for him.”

“The sun has risen and set on your backside where Bucky’s concerned as long as I’ve known you both,” Clint chimed in. “Marriage to a princess or not, the prince’s heart is spoken for.”

“But it can’t be spoken of, which you seem bent on ignoring, no matter how much I beg you,” Steve insisted. “So, _stop_ speaking of it.” Steve threw up his hands. “I was born into this. I could rue the day my father came to the palace to tend the king’s grounds, couldn’t I?” Steve let out a harsh laugh, and Clint winced. “He would have spared me so much… spared me so many damned nights of wondering how this came to be. I never would have known him, or seen his smile, or heard that laugh… I could have been anywhere else, plied any other trade, apprenticed under any other master if my father hadn’t pledged himself to his Majesty King George Barnes’ service, if it meant that I wouldn’t feel the way that I feel for-“ Steve stopped himself. “I never would have known what I was missing. I never would have known. And this damned knife wouldn’t be twisting in my heart.”

Clint and Natasha felt his anguish drifting over them like a thick cloak for a long, tense moment.

“So,” Clint decided, clapping his hands together, “will it be ale, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natasha scolded. “Everyone’s in the ballroom. No one will notice a bottle of brandy missing from the study in all the fuss.” Natasha believed in doing these things properly, after all.

And off they went.

*

Wyndham crept out of the ballroom, pleading the need to clear his head. George, looking gray and the worse for wear, begged off from further revelry himself, and Winifred and Stephen helped him up to his bedchamber. When Bucky noticed his parents departing the ballroom, his face fell into concerned lines, and he nodded an apology to Wanda before following them out.

“Father! Father, are you unwell?”

“No more than usual, lad,” he assured his son. Bucky reached for him, but George tutted. “Don’t slow our way upstairs, James. We’ll manage fine from here. Don’t desert your bride.”

“My… my bride,” Bucky repeated numbly. “You’ve decided, then. Have you signed the contract, Father?”

“Not until tomorrow morning, but we hand-clasped upon an agreement, Wyndham and I. Ross also gave the union and the treaty among our three kingdoms his blessing.”

“That’s a relief, Father.”

“Don’t look so down in the mouth,” George told him. His rheumy eyes stared up into Bucky’s, and this time, he gripped his shoulder. “It’s for the best. You’ll rule well, and you’ll have a capable queen at your side.” He chuckled. “Your mother will keep her in line.” Winifred pulled a face beside him, rolling her eyes.

She had a firm grip on George, helping to steady him. “I won’t box your ears this time,” she promised.

“See?” George assured his son. “Now, _that’s_ love.”

“Let’s see how you manage the stairs, sire,” Stephen reminded him, not liking George’s pallor or wobbly posture. 

Bucky hurried forward and kissed his father’s cheek. “Good night, Father.”

“Take your bride for another turn around the floor. Enjoy a glass of wine with her. Get to know her,” George chided him. Bucky noticed that his mother, too, looked wan and tired, dark shadows bruising the flesh around her eyes.

“Rest well, Father. Mother.” Bucky lingered a few moments as they left him, watching his father’s slow progress down the corridor, toward the stairwell.

“Bucky?” Bucky turned at the sound of Wanda’s smooth voice. She drifted into the hallway and joined him, looking expectant. “Is everything all right?” She stared after his parents, and her brow wrinkled. “Was this too much for him, tonight?”

“He would never admit it,” Bucky muttered. “He’s far too proud.” Wanda’s lips twitched, something he noticed when she threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. “What? What’s that look for?”

“I get the impression you two are a lot alike,” she told him smugly. “You remind me of my brother, too.”

“How so?”

“Do you really wish to know?” Her smile broadened another centimeter, and her eyes danced.

“I daresay I do!” He straightened up and narrowed his eyes at her.

“He’s hardheaded and stubborn as an ox!”

“What?!” She snickered, and she darted back, easing away from him when it looked like he would take umbrage, fingers twitching with the need to tickle her. “You did _not_ just tell me I’m hardheaded only a day after being introduced!”

“Ah, but I told you my _brother_ was hardheaded,” she corrected him. “But you are cut from the same cloth, after a fashion…”

“Ooooooh!” His eyes grew round at the slight, and a grin curled his lips. Wanda’s eyes flitted around the corridor, contemplating the best route of escape, before she decided on the path of greatest resistance. She turned on her heel and darted back into the ballroom. “What the… you… Ooh!” She gave chase, weaving through the mingling crowd, and a few faces reflected shock and annoyance at the slender woman in red darting around amongst them, followed by an exasperated Bucky. Wanda gave him the slip, pinching a glass of wine from a serving tray, mouthing a quick “sorry!” to the steward as she hustled off. Bucky quickly skirted around an elderly matron – Mrs. Jarvis, as it turned out – reaching out to gently steady her when he almost knocked her over. 

“Oh, dear… young man… sire? What on earth…?”

“Apologies, Mrs. Jarvis,” he offered, giving her his most winning smile before he returned to the chase. Wanda was sneaky, weaving about with her drink, nodding and mingling as she went, flattering passerby on mundane things, such as whether that was a new doublet, and doesn’t that blue silk bring out your eyes? She was a charming sneak, evading Bucky’s grasp and getting a round table between them, her eyes challenging him.

“Minx,” he muttered.

“You’re slower than Pietro,” she teased, taking a sip of the sweet red.

“Don’t be so sure. Fee?” Wanda’s eyes flicked toward where Bucky was looking, and she saw both of his sisters off to the side, sulking because no one was offering either of them a dance, and Willie had deserted them, choosing to raid the kitchen for sweets while the adults were distracted. 

“Yes, Bucky?” she asked hopefully.

“Give your new sister-in-law a big, big hug!” he told her, and he grinned at Fee’s look of delight. It was a game they often played with his other two siblings. Fee’s hugs often resembled tackles. Wanda’s eyes widened, and she hastily set her goblet down before it could spill.

“Oh, no, let’s not- GAH!”

_GLOMP!!!_

Wanda’s yelp was cut short by Fiona’s giggles. “Got you!” she cried, fling her chubby little arms around Wanda, pinning her arms to her waist. “Help her out, Becca!” Bucky encouraged, and sure enough, Becca grinned and caught Wanda from the other side. _Tickle her,_ Bucky mouthed to Becca, and and his sister poked Wanda’s sides, making her yelp and flinch.

“Oh, you! Don’t… _don’t!_ ” Wanda warned. “Oh, I will get you two back, mark my words!” Her words gave way to sputtering giggles, and Wanda’s cheeks were flushed from wine, an evening of dancing, and his sisters’ exuberant efforts at paying back her barb to their brother. Becca and Fee adored Bucky, and he was often the ringleader of any scheme the Barnes children cooked up. The gathered guests stared on in amusement and surprise, wondering how on earth Prince Bucky managed, somehow…

…to find a bride as undignified and improper as he was.

George’s decision was deemed sound by all.

Bucky and Wanda were about to return to the dance floor, but Fee looked mutinous. “When do we get a turn?” she demanded.

“Well, _now_ , of course,” Wanda told her, and she held out her hand to Bucky’s youngest sister. Fee was delighted, skirts rustling after her as Wanda swept her up into an improvised, simplified quick step. Bucky followed her lead and did the same with Becca, and no one dared tell the soon-to-be-marrieds that their form was faulty or that they moved a little “off” from the song being played. The night wore on, and the musicians played song, after song, after song.

*

Wyndham lit his pipe from the balcony rail as he stared out over the property, breathing in the acrid smoke.

“Sire.” He turned at the deep, familiar rasp and nodded.

“Sir Brock.”

“Are your comforts being seen to, sire?”

“For the moment,” he told him. Brock joined him, leaning over the rail and staring off into the night. “Have you no taste for ale, nor dancing?”

“It’s a knight’s duty to remain alert and to look out for the interests and safety of his king,” Brock remarked.

“Ah. Of course,” Wyndham agreed dryly. He gently scratched the end of his nose and contemplated his pipe. Then he handed it toward Brock. “How fortunate, then, sir knight, that I know who’s working so diligently to protect _my interests,_ then.” Brock took the proffered pipe and inhaled a deep draft of smoke into his lungs, then blew it out, savoring it.

“I await your orders, sire.”

*

“Natasha. You horrid, awful woman…” Steve slurred, raising his hand as if to lecture her, then letting it drop limply to his lap. Clint sniggered into his cup, eyes gleaming from intoxication. “This is a fine… shape I’m in.”

“It would be, if you would ever come out to the practice field and let Clint and me teach you a few things,” Natasha argued simply. Her voice was still clear and even, even though her nose and cheeks were pink from drink. “A stiff breeze could knock you down, master gardener.”

“Stiff breezes knock the ripest fruit from the branch,” Steve told her proudly, raising his cup in her direction. A few drops sloshed over the rim, and Clint craned his neck around – as he’d done several times since they stole into the study – to make sure no one saw Steve spilling any of the king’s precious brandy.

“Steve’s ripe,” Clint pronounced. Natasha huffed, then leaned over, giving Steve’s shirt sleeve a deep sniff.

“He’s not wrong about that, Rogers,” Natasha told him. “You smell like you’ve spent all day outside.”

“HEY!” Steve swatted at her, and she grinned as she backed off. “’Course… I _have…_ but no sense rubbing it in.” He huffed, plowing his fingers through his already mussed blond hair. “S’all I’m good for. Digging in the dirt.”

“And there he goes again, ever the dramatic damsel,” Clint told Natasha. He turned to Steve, sighing. “Wouldn’t hurt, you know. Coming out with us once in a while. Work on your aim. Show you how to heft a sword.”

“What on earth for?” Steve looked amused at the notion, but his eyes gleamed with interest.

“Because,” Clint told him. And that was all he told him. Steve shook his head.

“Why waste your time, Barton?”

“Training a man to defend himself and his home is never a waste of time,” Natasha argued. “And why not? Bring your arse down to the practice field tomorrow after supper, while there’s still some light.”

“Not like you’ve ever backed out of a fight before, anyway,” Clint reminded him. 

It was a sore spot, and Clint knew he was digging his finger into it. Steve spent most of his childhood learning his father’s trade and toiling on the palace grounds, but when his parents’s backs were turned, and when Bucky and his sisters were ensconced in the library with their lessons, Steve was left at the mercy of Brock and the other pages. Oh, how they made sport of him.

There were the pranks. Dumping grubs or worms into Steve’s soup bowl or mug, hiding his work gloves, putting a tack in his boot, tripping him when he walked by, arms loaded down with tools and baskets. They needled him for his size and stature, and when they went too far, Steve stood his ground, even when it meant getting knocked into the dirt.

Steve never instigated the fights when they happened, but more than once, he ended up punished to remind him of his place and position, namely that he didn’t have any. Joseph gave him the lash, and Steve didn’t cry out when it happened, back of his shirt raised while welts were raised on his vulnerable flesh, and Steve found himself not wanting to meet his father’s gaze, feeling ashamed at his lack of self-discipline.

His father’s voice made him pause as he was about to leave their chamber. “They won’t stop if you just lie down,” Joseph murmured. Steve glanced up at his father at that moment and saw the tears in his eyes, despite his stern look. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but he thought better of it. “Go. Do the seedlings first. Then go pick some basil for Cook, she asked for some earlier.”

“Yes, Father.” Sarah had nursed his wounds, when they appeared, with tight lips and anger simmering in her eyes. She allowed Joseph to guide Steven into his work instead of remaining within the castle walls to follow in her footsteps as a healer, something expected of him as Joseph’s only son. Sarah occasionally felt wistful, regretting during those moments that Steve couldn’t have been a daughter instead, whom she could have at least protected with full justification. Yet, a daughter of a nurse and gardener living in the castle would have had a bleak future to look forward to, perhaps as a scullery girl or cook, or even a ladies’ maid, and she would have eventually been married off to a tinker or a stable boy to bear a passel of babies, who would live that same life of servitude.

Joseph would have scoffed at the thought of his diminutive, sickly son hefting a sword. Sarah would have been appalled.

“Do you have a sword in my size?” he asked Natasha. 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll learn to use a proper sword. I’ll even let you try out mine, since I’m feeling generous.”

Clint grinned. “That’s a rare honor. Now, a woman who’ll let you hold her sword… no telling what else she’ll let a fella get his hands on-“ Natasha made an indignant noise and went over to pummel him soundly. Steve sniggered into his cup, and Natasha gave him a look that promised it was his turn next.

“If you can survive learning a waltz from this one, you’ll manage fairly well sparring with out on the field,” Clint assured Steve.

Natasha huffed in disgust. “ _This_ one? He can barely manage a waltz. I’ve my work cut out for me teaching you how to fight, Rogers.”

“Dancing? It’s easy enough,” Barton claimed smugly. Natasha gave him a jaundiced look. “What? I’m smooth on my feet!”

“Bold boast. I’ll believe it when I see it,” she told him. Her eyes were slightly glassy from drink, but her smirk tied Clint’s gut up in knots. 

“What? You want a turn around the ballroom floor?”

“No. Here’s just fine.” Steve chuckled at that, and he rose from his seat. He beckoned to Clint.

“C’mon, man. Help me move the chairs back. And that table.” Clint hopped up and grinned, shaking his head. They moved the furniture back and deftly rolled up the rug so they wouldn’t track it up with their boots or trip over it. Natasha and Clint eyed each other levelly, meeting in the center of the floor. Steve went to the window and opened the shutters, letting the strains of music drift inside. He leaned his hip back against the edge of George’s escritoire and waved them on to begin.

Natasha reached for Clint’s hand to place it at her waist, but he shook his head before curling his arm around it and taking her left hand instead of her right, deciding to lead. She frowned.

“What…?!” His blue eyes crinkled at how neatly he’d caught her off-guard, and he began a surprisingly skilled quick step, following the sounds of the fiddles and flutes. Although he held her too closely for convention – her torso was flush against his, close enough to feel his heart hammering through his chest and the heat of his body through his thin jerkin – he had excellent posture and form, and he stared up into her eyes the whole time, never once glancing down at her feet.

“Barton the Bastard, Steve,” he flipped over his shoulder at his surprised friend. “My family were circus folk. They were travelers at heart, and they decided another mouth to feed would only weigh them down. They left me behind, but not before I learned a trick or two.” The song changed, and he slowed them into the lilting sway of a waltz next. Natasha, to his delight, was light on her feet, anticipating his changes in direction by the lean of his body in brief, subtle increments. Steve looked on enviously, enjoying their grace and fluidity, looking like they’d always partnered for dances before this.

“That’s where you learned to shoot?” Natasha asked softly.

“How to throw knives. How to walk a tightrope.” He twirled her quickly, and she didn’t stumble, despite the brandy swimming through their veins. “How to dance and charm a woman off her feet.”

“How to feed someone a line of horse shit.” Her lips twitched.

“Well, yes. That, too.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, earning himself another roll of her eyes. Large, green eyes fringed with dark, thick lashes, and Barton was lost. His palm felt hot splayed across her slender back, and he felt her shiver slightly. “Are you chilled?”

“No. It’s a bit close in here, actually. Steve? Open the shutters a little more?”

“My pleasure,” Steve told her as he obliged them. His own skin was flushed from drink and he was beginning to sweat. He lingered by the window to let the cool air fan over his skin. He heard his friends’ feet moving over the floor to the music as he contemplated the night, watching the stars twinkled and the tree branches sway in the light breeze. It was a perfect night for a ball, and for a betrothal, he mused to himself. If he had to lose what he had with Bucky, then he might as well do it in style, with friends and decent brandy-

Something caught his eyes off to the side. He noticed movement across the way, on the balcony, and he focused on two bodies leaning in toward each other, talking furtively.

“Clint? Who’s that?” Steve asked. “Over there?”

“Where?”

“Well, come look. Your vision’s sharper than mine.” Clint reluctantly released Natasha, but she followed him anyway to join Steve at the window. Natasha was bereft at the loss of his firm grip and warm skin, but the contact had been disconcerting, and now she composed herself.

Clint peered outside. “Hnh. Looks like his Majesty. And… Rumlow, I think.”

“Strange,” Natasha murmured. “He should be inside mingling with all of the other overstuffed royals and shoving petit fours down his gob and swilling wine.”

“The royal elite don’t ‘stuff their gobs,’” Steve chided her. “They cram their gullets. And then they use the finger bowls.”

“Ah,” she agreed. “Good point.”

“Why is he with Brock?” Clint interrupted. “One doesn’t chat up the royal guard during a ball. They mingle. Right?”

The three of them watched the two men on the balcony, frowning and pondering.

*

The guests began to disperse. The servants began to escort those guests who were staying at the castle to the spare quarters that had been aired and cleaned for that purpose, and the rest were shown to their carriages to depart. Bucky was exhausted but restless. Once his exuberance and the faint, pleasant buzz of the alcohol wore away and the music stopped, he had the chance to remember the purpose of the gathering and what it meant for him.

He was to be married.

He was going to lose Steve.

Melancholy settled over his features, tightening his grip on the railing as he leaned over the balcony. Steve was nowhere to be found, robbing him of his usual surcease. Bucky lingered outside, watching the stars, deciding he needed a walk to clear his head before he retired.

“Bucky?” Becca, Fee and Willie appeared behind him. Willie had their little sister hoisted up in his arms, struggling under her weight, and Fee was out like a light, drooling onto his tunic. Bucky grinned and stroked her dark curls back from her brow, making her yawn in response and smack her lips. “We just wanted to tell you good night.” 

“Where’s her Majesty?” Willie asked wryly. 

“She’ll be your sister in law, soon enough,” Bucky said.

“I have enough sisters already,” he complained, but his tone wasn’t bitter. Becca lightly kicked him, and Willie stuck out his tongue, not unlike how Bucky would have done.

“You’d best go to bed, now.” Bucky knew their governess would be hunting them down soon enough. If his father was planning to make his announcement first thing in the morning, it wouldn’t do for his entire family to be dozing off in their scrambled eggs.

“Bucky?” Becca mentioned. “I like Wanda. She seems nice.”

“She does, doesn’t she?”

“Good night.” She reached up for him, and he leaned down to accept her kiss on his cheek. Bucky kissed Fiona’s brow, making her rub her nose in her sleep, and he chuckled, ruffling Willie’s hair before sending them off. Bucky then set off on his walk over the grounds. His feet wore their usual groove down the path toward the family cemetery plot.

He stopped along the way to pick some of Steve’s precious roses, white ones this time, and he denuded the twigs of their poky thorns as he went. Bucky was glad for the solitude for the moment, as his composure began to break down. By the time he reached Sarah’s grave, his eyes were blurring with hot tears.

“It’s been a long time, Sarah. I’m sorry. I’ve brought you something.” He laid the roses in front of her headstone and began to clear away the weeds that began to twine around her plaque. “They’re lovely, aren’t they? Steve babies those roses so much. He has a green thumb, but common sense? That one? Not so much, Sarah. Your son is still hardheaded.” Bucky pictured his best friend’s mother smiling back at him, and it made him wistful. “I enjoy that about him. Don’t tell him, though.” He sat beside her grave and talked for a while, regaling Sarah of some of Steve’s jokes and of the things her son had gotten up to, excluding the night they spent together. 

“It’s so hard, trying to do the right thing,” Bucky told her. “I’m to be married, Sarah. And it scares me to death.”

“You’re not the only one who’s scared,” Wanda told him. Bucky had been so wrapped up in his one-sided conversation and musings that he hadn’t even heard Wanda approach. Her steps were silent in the night, and she still wore her finery. Instead of waiting for him to stand, she crouched down beside him, gently reaching for one of the white roses. “These are lovely. All of the flowers are beautiful here.”

“We have a talented grounds crew. You can thank Steven when you see him. He’s our master gardener.” Bucky felt himself trying to swallow down a lump with Steve’s name. “He’s a gift.”

“Who is Sarah?” she asked him softly, stroking the headstone’s engraved lettering.

“A dear friend. Steve’s mother, actually. She was one of our healers. She died far too soon.” 

“You visit her with flowers,” Wanda mused. “She must have been very special to you, indeed.”

“That’s Steve’s father, right over there.” Bucky rose and dusted himself off, not wishing to continue the conversation. She followed him as he left the gravesite, and they walked companionably back toward the rose garden.

“These _are_ impressive grounds,” Wanda observed. “Do you spend a lot of time out here?”

“As time allows.”

“Of course. Duty leaves little time for leisure.”

“Do you enjoy spending time outside?”

“Surely you jest. I’m a _princess,_ Bucky. I shun the sunlight to protect my delicate, porcelain skin and constitution.” She couldn’t maintain her deadpan expression when he cocked his brow at her.

“Delicate?”

“Delicate as a horse’s arse,” she muttered. “Of course I love being outside. I’ll take time on the saddle over hours spent plying my needle or sitting in stuffy salons any day, Bucky. Nature is my friend.” She grinned at him. “Did you know plants talk to us?”

Bucky stared at her as though she was daft.

“It’s true. They do.” 

“Our palace physician might have a nice potion that will make them be quiet. I’ll see if he can mix you a draft-“ Wanda swatted him, but they were both grinning.

“You’re awful.”

“I believe that, coming from someone just as awful.” Bucky picked her another rose, this one red, and he stripped it of its thorns, too, before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. 

“Does Steven grow herbs, too?”

“Indeed. Why?”

“Just wondering. Perhaps I could meet him tomorrow and bend his ear.”


	6. Intoxicating, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve cope with the king's proclamation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have NO idea what the blinkin’ heck I’m doing. My muses are running away with this story, but I’m just kinda letting them. For the record, don’t hate Wanda quite yet. I changed gears with what I was planning for her following a couple of awesome comments on this, and I’m happier with that concept now.

Bucky was right. The Barnes children were hovering drowsily over their breakfast plates the next day when Nicholas arrived in the dining room. Winifred was joining them briefly for a soft-boiled egg and toast, having already brought George his breakfast and medicines. He gave her his permission to issue the proclamation that morning. The previous night’s festivities wore him out, and he was resigned to remain in bed to regain his strength.

Nicholas smiled benignly at them all, and Winifred nodded to him. “Good morning, Majesties. I’m pleased to inform you all that your father has signed the marriage contract and has approved this marriage. The wedding will take place three days from now.”

“So. It’s been decided,” Bucky murmured.

“Congratulations on your impending nuptials, your Highness,” Nicholas told Bucky. He gave him a curt bow and backed out of the room. Bucky lost interest in his food, no longer wanting to lift the morsel of sausage speared on his fork to his lips.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. He busied himself going over his father’s accounts in the study, listening with half an ear to his mother as she fussed and planned, finishing the arrangements for the wedding. He attempted to visit his father later that morning, but he fell back to sleep. Stephen advised him to return for a visit after supper, when George was feeling better rested. Bucky caught a glimpse of his father’s waxen, pale countenance as he slept, just as Stephen closed his chamber door, and the pangs of unease that dogged him since breakfast only ate at him more strongly.

His mother pounced on him eventually, looking smug. “Don’t think to escape just yet. You need your last fitting, James.”

Bucky pulled a face. “Must we do this, Mother?”

“We must. Everything must be perfect. Your bride is at her final fitting as we speak, since she’s very organized and focused. Far be it from me to tell you that she’s actually _enthusiastic_ about this wedding.”

“Someone should be, I suppose.” Bucky didn’t argue with his mother, nor did he share that Wanda, too, had slightly cold feet about marrying him so quickly. His mother looked drawn and frustrated, wringing her hands until he took them in his. “Mother, I appreciate you. I love you.” She released a pent-up breath, and was about to speak, but he gave her a look, requesting her silence. “I have my misgivings. I know this union will benefit us. I know Father wants what’s best. I just have this… this strange intuition that something’s wrong.”

“Are you worried that you won’t be able to love her? Bucky, sometimes love takes time to grow and thrive. You just have to keep an open mind-“

“Mother, I’m being given away.”

Winifred shook her head, stunned back into silence. Her eyes searched his, and he felt her entire body stiffen with tension. Bucky stared down at her soft, withered hands, gently running his thumb over her wedding band.

“Mother, Father loves you. You had that opportunity to court and play.” When he stared up into her eyes, hers looked so tired, but he pressed on. “You knew him before you said your vows. You knew what was in his heart, and that it truly belonged to you.”

“And you feel that we’re denying you that luxury.” Winifred exhaled a shaky breath. “I know this is abrupt. Perhaps it doesn’t seem ideal. You’ve never expressed an interest in any of the other prospects that we’ve considered before, Bucky.”

It was true, and Bucky winced. 

There had been other balls, and other visits to the homes of various counts and dukes and marquises. The introductions had been discreet, pleasant and hopeful, but Bucky never felt a spark of true interest beyond physical attraction. The women were always lovely, wealthy, well-connected and cultured, and for the most part, kind. A random few he found very shallow and spoiled, something he had no patience for, and he was blunt during discussions with his parents once they returned home and had the chance to check in over tea in his father’s study.

On one such visit, Bucky found his attention diverted from one such princess when her older brother strode into the room, announcing that a game of croquet had been set up on the lawn. Desire and interest coiled in Bucky’s gut at the fluid way he moved and the sound of his rich, deep voice. His neatly combed dark hair gleamed like sable and he had a strong jawline and broad smile. Bucky longed to run his hands over the hard contours and planes of his body, and he felt a hot flush spread over his skin when the princess in question, the one he was supposed to acquainting himself with, poked him gently to get his attention back. Bucky’s returning smile was disarming, but his eyes occasionally flitted back to Daniel, and as the afternoon wore on, he asked his sister if she cared for a game outside, since it was such a lovely day.

“I suppose I should have been more decisive before,” Bucky muttered now.

“This wedding isn’t meant to be punishment for not choosing a bride yourself,” Winifred told him earnestly. “It isn’t. I don’t want you to ever think that we’re being punitive. We’re not losing a son. We’re gaining a lovely daughter-in-law.”

“And a kingdom.”

“James!” Winifred looked ready to smack him. Bucky chuckled and kissed his mother’s hands. 

“Well, you _are_.”

“We’re gaining _peace_. The generations that follow yours deserve this truce and the harmony it will bring.”

“I’m giving you a hard time, Mother.” He leaned over and hugged her, noticing that she felt smaller and more frail. He breathed in the scent of lilacs from the sachets of dried flowers that her ladies’ maid tucked into her armoire and clothing trunks. She released him and cupped his cheek fondly.

“Go. Try on your wedding suit. And go find your brother, too.” Bucky grinned as he left his mother, knowing Willie would kick up a fuss, but misery loved company. He eventually tracked him down outside, where he practiced his shooting with Clint. As soon as Bucky arrived, his face was wreathed in exaggerated sorrow.

“Awwwwwwwwww!”

“Come along. Let’s get this over with, and the sooner you do, the sooner you can loose as many arrows as you please.”

“He’s getting better,” Clint told Bucky enthusiastically.

“Because he keeps trying to skip his lessons inside. You shouldn’t let him,” Bucky scolded, but Clint shrugged.

“Not all of us are bookish.”

“Lessons are so _boring_ ,” Willie complained as he handed Clint the bow respectfully and went to retrieve the arrows where they lay on the ground and protruded from the outer rings of the target. There were two arrows embedded in the blue ring, third from center, and that made Bucky smile; Willie _was_ getting better.

“They are. But do them while you have the chance. You’ll wish you were learning your geometry and philosophy instead, once you’re old enough to be trapped in state rooms and conferences and strategy meetings with Father and his dukes, or any of your peers.” The life of a prince, or of a king, Bucky reminded himself, was seldom simple. He thought back to afternoons spent taking turns on the swing with Steve, feeling his friend’s small hands springing off of his back as he pushed him, warm sun beating down on them with wind whistling through his hair. Lolling in freshly raked piles of crackling leaves and describing the shapes of clouds overhead to each other. His life should have stayed so simple…

Willie pouted all the way back inside, but he stood tall and straight as the tailor helped him into the outfit for the wedding. Bucky and his mother marveled quietly at how much his brother had grown, and Winifred brushed away a furtive tear, the sentiment _He’s still my baby_ written all over her face, even as she sternly told the tailor to adjust the hems on his breeches. When Willie glanced at himself in the mirror, he made a face at first, despising the fussy clothing with all of its buttons and tucks and embroidery, yet he straightened up and fixed the fold of his jacket cuff, brushing off imaginary dust. Bucky smirked. His younger brother would cut a dash, whether he wanted to or not.

When it was his turn, Willie happily scampered off as soon as he was back in his rough togs and boots, shooting Bucky a smug grin before he left. Bucky mock-glared at him as the tailors wrested him out of his usual clothes behind the changing screen.

“Isn’t this excessive?” he asked impatiently as they began pulling out the stockings, long breeches, shining boots, a heavily piped jacket and contrasting doublet, and a brilliant white shirt with starched ruffles at the throat.

“You will be stunning, sire,” the tailor assured him. “You will turn every head in the chapel and at the banquet.”

“Ridiculous. Everyone will be paying attention to the bride. I could just as soon wear a ruck sack,” Bucky argued, but Winifred tsked, rolling her eyes.

“Just put it on, son. Don’t leave us waiting all day.” Bucky fumed and began easing into the clothes. They were closely fitted and stifling, but he didn’t say as much, not when the tailor looked as harried as his mother, fingers anxiously plucking at him, pinning up hems to make adjustments and even up seams. Bucky stepped into the boots, struggling with the stiff new leather, but he was pleased with how they fit.

“With your hair pulled back, the neckline will be shown to best effect,” the tailor told him, gently stroking back his hair from his face, and Bucky could have sworn that his hand lingered briefly, fingertips grazing his neck…

Fittings were tedious, and they were tense. It was always unnerving and too personal, having someone’s hands on him, dressing and undressing him when it wasn’t for pleasure, and it was that much _worse_ with his mother looking on from the other side of the chamber. Bucky tried to tamp down the flush rising up into his cheeks. His mother noticed it anyway when he stepped out from behind the screen.

“Oh, my! That color, it’s so rich… I knew I’d like it with your eyes, James, you look so… flushed. Are you too warm?” Winifred rose and closed the space between them, feeling his brow. “Don’t you feel well, dear?”

“I’m fine, Mother. Just a bit warm. I’m wearing so many clothes right now.”

“It will be a morning ceremony, your Highness,” the tailor reminded him as he smoothed the back of the jacket with his palms, and Bucky still felt self-conscious beneath those sweeping strokes and under his mother’s sharp scrutiny. “The air should still be nice and cool. You won’t mind the extra layers as much, then.”

“It will look nice with your hair tied back,” Winifred murmured. “You make a handsome groom, James.”

“He most certainly does, your Highness,” the tailor chimed in. Bucky sighed.

“May I please, _please_ take these off?”

“You’re excused,” Winifred told him as she pecked him on the cheek. She sailed out of the room, and Bucky made haste in giving the tailor back the clothes, needing to free his skin from the itchy, pulling weaves and tucks. He climbed back into his linens and leathers and hurried from the chamber. Bucky ran downstairs toward the practice yard, thinking to catch up to Clint and Willie, but he was stopped by Wanda’s voice as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Bucky? A moment, if you don’t mind? Where is this Steve? Your gardener?”

“Oh. Um. Probably in the garden?” he guessed. He offered Wanda his arm politely, and she grinned up at him easily. She was also in a casual dress, a relatively plain linen gown with a lightweight bliaut over it in sedate shades of cream and brown. It didn’t detract from her beauty, however, even though he preferred her in the flamboyant red. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a neat plait, and she wore a lovely silver necklace with one of the largest opals Bucky ever saw hanging as a pendant from it.

“I was hoping I could meet with him today. You have yet to introduce me to him.” It was on the tip of Bucky’s tongue to ask her if she wanted him to make formal introductions to all of his other staff, too, but he decided against it. And Steve, he considered, wasn’t just “staff.” He wasn’t, indeed…

“You mentioned… herbs?”

“Yes. I’m something of an herbalist, myself. I’ve studied the healing arts and botany, as well.” 

“That’s definitely not like sitting in stuffy salons or plying your needle,” he remarked, repeating her own claims from the night before. Wanda playfully swatted him as they walked outside through the kitchen door. He reached over to the plate of biscuits and stole them each a couple on his way out. “That’s him, over there grooming the hedges.”

“Oh. Is that a maze?” she asked. “I didn’t notice that last night.”

“It was dark out. We can explore it, if you like.”

“Yes, please!” She took one of the proffered biscuits and nibbled it as they made their way toward the maze, and she made a sound of wonder as they approached Steve.

“He’s… smaller than I pictured him. And he maintains all of this himself?”

“He has help, but he is responsible for everything looking the way it does, whether he’s the one swinging the scythe or delegating it to someone else.” Bucky grinned as he waved over to Steve. “Perhaps the plants talk to him, too…”

“Oh, _do_ shut up,” she muttered under her breath. “Hello, sir.” She greeted Steve, releasing Bucky and holding out her hand before he could offer a proper introduction. Steve immediately flushed to the roots of his hair, awkwardly dropping his shears. He hastily reached into his pocket and retrieved a rag to wipe off his hands, then awkwardly took Wanda’s.

“Er… good afternoon, your Majesty. I’m Steve. Steven. Rogers. Not Stephen, he’s the physician… just call me Steve, if you like.”

“I would be glad to, Steve Rogers,” Wanda teased, and Steve hated himself a little for the resentment he felt. Her hand was soft, but her grip was strong, and she was ridiculously beautiful up close. And of course, like everyone else, she towered over him. “I’m Wanda Maximoff. Soon to be Wanda Barnes.” And that was just twisting the knife in a little more deeply, wasn’t it?

“Pleased – honored – to make your acquaintance, your Majesty,” Steve stammered, and he dropped into the expected bow. Bucky felt his nervousness in the face of Wanda’s intimidating beauty and charisma, and he almost pitied him.

“That’s enough of that,” Wanda chided him. “You’re the master gardener, Bucky tells me. What types of herbs do you grow here?”

“Herbs?” Steve looked puzzled, and, to Bucky’s eyes, adorable. “Oh. We have many different kinds.”

“Colt’s foot? Slippery elm? Black cohosh? Foxglove? Digitalis?”

“Goodness,” Steve muttered, then flushed when he realized she was waiting for an answer. “Those plants are more exotic than the herbs I usually grow for the cooks. I cultivate some, however. Dr. Strange – the other Stephen – uses them from time to time, for medicinal purposes,” he informed her. Wanda looked pleased. “I can show you the shed, if you like, where I keep those plants and start my seedlings?”

“Please. Lead the way, sir.” She turned to Bucky and leaned up to give him a brief peck on the cheek, close to the corner of his mouth, and jealousy bloomed hotly in Steve’s chest. “Feel free to go back to what you were doing, Bucky. I will meet you for supper.”

“Oh. All right.” Bucky felt odd to be dismissed, and Steve threw him a brief look of confusion that only deepened when Wanda companionably threw an arm around his narrow shoulders and steered them toward his planting shed. “I’ll just… go. Shoot. Arrows and things.” It wasn’t unlike how he would walk with Steve at leisure, with him tucked comfortably against his side. Bucky wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that.

Wanda and Steve reached the shed, and she perused his nice, neat tables and benches of potting crates filled with various herbs and other seedlings with delight. “What a wonderful selection! You have been busy, Steve!”

“I like to make sure I have the planting done on time so we have a timely harvest when the seasons roll ‘round, Majesty. Are there certain plants that you would like to see in the garden, or any herbs that you favor?”

“The ones I mentioned previously,” Wanda mentioned. She stroked the delicate green shoots in their pots and leaned down to smell the bunches of basil and rosemary. “I could spend all day in here,” she murmured. “So,” she continued, “how long have you done this?”

“All my life. Er, my father was the king’s gardener before me.”

“You were born into it,” she decided. “Is it what you would have chosen for yourself?”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose…”

“There’s no incorrect answer. An honest one would be best, Steve,” Wanda pressed. Steve blushed and tried to busy himself clipping some basil and laying it into a small basket for Cook. “No need to be shy.”

“I’m honored to have a place in the castle, serving my sovereigns,” Steve pronounced.

“One wouldn’t think you would be ideally suited for this sort of work. Manual labor. You seem more the scholarly sort? Or perhaps creative?”

“I try to foster and build whatever skills my king needs of me,” Steve argued gently. “There’s some nice colt’s foot here, Princess Wanda.”

“Yes, it _is_ very nice.” Her eyes were mischievous, Steve was annoyed to notice, and worse, so much like Bucky’s. “Stop changing the subject, Steve.”

“Begging your pardon, Princess Wanda. I don’t wish to speak out of turn, but you’ve chosen a subject that-“

“No. I beg _your_ pardon, Steve. I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“Well… yes.”

“Good.”

“Uh…”

“When you develop a sore on your foot from a poor-fitting pair of slippers, you take them off. You could use a bit of discomfort, Steve.”

“Milady,” Steve stammered, “I’m… perfectly comfortable in my role. I’m content. I have a knack for it. What I do is appreciated and necessary-“

“I suppose,” Wanda told him with a shrug, and her eyes still held that glint that Steve realized he might be wise to fear, going forward, “that you could call it ‘necessary.’ Whose needs do you work hardest to serve, Steve?”

“The king and queen!” Steve said, brows beetling. His mouth felt dry and he felt a strange buzz of annoyance tightening his scalp.

“Hm.” Wanda shrugged thoughtfully, then nodded as she sniffed some of his thyme leaves. “My future father-in-law would benefit from the properties of some of these herbs, certainly.”

“Stephen Strange is a skilled healer,” Steve told her firmly. He didn’t want her to suggest otherwise.

“I’m sure he is. Winifred sang your praises last night, too, for the lovely vegetables in every dish served at her banquet table.”

“I would offer her nothing but the best that I could produce from her fields,” Steve agreed. “It’s expected of me.”

“What does Bucky expect of you?”

Steve dropped the planting crate from nerveless fingers, stunned as much by her cavalier tone as the words themselves, hearing the name of the man he loved in that context…

“What does… Bucky expect?” Steve shook his head hollowly. “Majesty, surely you don’t… you couldn’t _possibly_ think… he expects me to serve him. I’m his servant.”

“ _Just_ his servant.” The lilting weight that word bore made Steve grit his teeth.

“Yes, Majesty. I gladly, loyally serve my prince as I would my king and queen. No herb, no slice of fruit, no leaf of greens that leaves my hands will reach his plate that hasn’t been grown with utmost care and attention. I won’t allow his feet to tread over uneven fields or uncleared paths. I won’t abuse his sight with wilted flowers or untrimmed shrubs. When my prince explores the maze at his leisure, the branches and roots won’t trip him or snag his clothing, and there will always be fresh lavender for his wardrobe and bed linens to speed him to a peaceful rest at night.” Wanda’s brows rose at these claims. “The sun won’t rise on shabby work from my hands for the prince – for Bucky – to witness when he strolls these grounds and seeks peace and a place to think. He deserves the best that I can offer. That is what Bucky should expect from me… what he has a _right_ to expect of me.”

“Goodness. Gracious.”

Wanda was struck speechless. Steve was breathing hard and thoroughly flushed, and he probed a sore spot inside his cheek where he’d inadvertently bit it while she was placing her barb. He swallowed roughly and picked up the crate that he dropped, setting the pots within it to rights.

Hoarsely, he told her, “We’ve some nice St. John’s wort, if you like. I can prepare the herbs you wanted in a nice basket if you like, milady.”

*

Wanda perused Steve’s shed slowly, and Steve excused himself for a bit – with her nod of permission – to go water the vegetable garden. He dipped the pail into the well to fill his yolk buckets, taking longer than necessary to finish. The sun was lower in the sky, signaling that it was almost time for supper, but his stomach was roiling and knotted with frustration.

“Why the long face?” Clint approached him, giving him a nudge. “Well, longer than usual, anyway.”

“I’m a fool,” Steve muttered. “Let me get this done, Barton. The watering won’t do itself.” He staggered slightly under the weight of the yoke as he hoisted it up onto his shoulders, and Clint made no move to help him, knowing how prickly Steve could be whenever he tried.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I met the princess, and I managed to shove my foot into my mouth, boot and all.”

“Oh. Well, that’s hardly unusual, for you.” Steve glared up at him as he began to douse each row of plants. “You’ve never been particularly smooth with the ladies, Rogers. Unless you count the short variety. Fee and Becca find you charming enough.”

“Please don’t start,” Steve snapped. “She was prodding me. Asking me questions that… that I found difficult to answer properly.” He finished watering the first two rows and worked on the next from the second bucket. “I may have truly stepped in it.”

“Did you offend her? It’s not like you made a comment about how she looked or insulted her cologne…”

“Don’t be stupid, Barton.”

“That’s asking a lot, Rogers,” Natasha said, startling Steve when she appeared by his shoulder from behind. He nearly dropped the yoke. “Hurry up and finish that so we can eat. Then we’re going to the practice field, like we said.”

“There’s no point. I may lose my place in the palace, and possibly my head. I spoke out of turn with the princess.”

“Seems unlikely,” Natasha sniffed. “I just saw her a moment ago. She was with Bucky leaving the shed, laughing with him easy as you please. Doesn’t seem like she would’ve been if she were angry about anything, particularly not a gardener that she wished to throw out of the castle.”

“Come out to the field. It might feel good to hit something,” Clint wheedled.

“Like Clint,” Natasha added, lips curling as she glanced at the archer. Clint held his arms open, smiling ridiculously. Steve groaned outright.

*

Steve finished his clean-up and put away the yoke and buckets in the shed before eating a hasty supper in the kitchen. Cook tried to feed him up with a second helping, but he had little appetite for the first.

“You’re too thin,” she complained. “You need more meat on those precious little bones.”

“Everything was delicious. Everything you lay your hands on is superb,” Steve assured her, and she beamed.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, young man. Take a biscuit, at least.” Steve took three and nodded to her on his way out. Natasha and Clint were already waiting for him by the shed where the weapons were hung, and Clint was lifting a bow from its case while Natasha sorted through the array of arrows.

She smiled when he approached. “You shouldn’t have! You brought us cookies?”  
“He brought _me_ cookies, milady, if you’re watching your figure.” Clint eagerly snatched one from Steve’s hand and munched on it.

“I never said that,” Natasha assured him as she took one for herself, giving Clint a warning look. No one came between Natasha and perfectly good sweets. “Don’t think I’ll go any easier on you just because you brought me a bribe, Rogers.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Steve told her. “Might as well get this over with.”

“You’ll thank me. Clint had the bright idea that we should start you on a bow, first, instead of a sword. We’ll get you used to how it feels to hold a weapon.”

“And perhaps you’ll treat my arrows better than the pages do,” Clint grumbled around a mouthful of biscuit. “They’ve got rough, disrespectful hands, the lot of ‘em.”

“We even put up a new target just for you,” Natasha told Steve.

“What was wrong with the old one?”

“Bucky blew out the middle of it.” She dug in the box of supplies and held up the target. It was splintered through from so many holes where the prince’s arrows hit the center with unfailing accuracy. “He’s done this more than once. We should make him build and paint the new targets from now on, honestly.” Steve whistled, impressed as he fingered the ragged holes.

“So. Let’s outfit you with a bow and something to protect you.” Clint fussed over him, making Steve hold out his arm. He had long limbs for someone relatively short, so Clint fetched him an adult-sized bow. It was stiff and heavy, and Steve grunted as he took it. Clint fetched him a protective glove and a leather arm guard to slide on over his shirt sleeve. “You’ll thank me for this later. This will save you some painful welts.”

“You won’t have time to don one if you’re caught unawares,” Natasha reminded him.

“When would I be?” Steve demanded.

“During battle or a sneak attack,” Natasha reasoned.

“You’re anticipating a battle?” Steve asked dryly as he put on the guard and glove.

“I _always_ anticipate a battle, Steve.” She clapped him on the back and led him to the shooting line. “All right. You won’t stand with your feet all spread out like that, not forward. Turn your body to the side. Whichever is your weak side, because you’ll shoot with your stronger arm. So, left foot front.” The posture felt strange to Steve, but he obeyed. “Straighten that arm. I don’t want it looking like a limp noodle. And stop slouching.”

“I’m not!”

“You look slouchy.”

“That’s just his spine, milady,” Clint reminded her.

“It’s crooked, but it’s not naturally hunched, Barton. Straighten up, Steve!” She grabbed him and began to mold and manipulate his body and limbs, moving them where she wanted them. She stood alongside him, then made him move over about four inches. “Line yourself up with the target.”

“Knock that arrow nice and straight. Rest it over the handgrip. No, no, no, it’s all crooked…” Clint’s voice vacillated between patient and long-suffering, but he wasn’t quite as grabby as Natasha. “Never mind. Watch me, first.” Clint plucked the bow and arrow from Steve’s unsure grip and lined himself up perfectly, expertly knocking the arrow, drawing it back tautly, and letting the bowstring twang like a plucked chord. The arrow swished cleanly through the air, meeting the target like a long-absent lover. _Thunk!_ The arrow was dead-center, the first blemish on its pristine surface. “There. Just do that.”

“Right,” Steve muttered.

“Child’s play,” Natasha assured him cheerfully as she nocked her own arrows and practiced with the adjacent target to give Steve room. Her target hit the middle circle, too, not quite as cleanly as Barton’s, but it was still impressive. She continued to loose arrow after arrow, enjoying the slap of the string against her arm guard and the whistling sound they made as they flew.

“Give it a try, Steve.”

Give it a try, he said.

Steve’s first arrow came nowhere near the target. Nor did the fifth or sixth, both of them sailing several feet above it. With each attempt, Clint and Natasha offered advice on his form and his aim.

“Straighten that arm.”

“You’re tilting it. Trust your eyes.”

“Line up your feet. Fix that back foot.”

His aggravation grew with each shot after the dozenth. After the twentieth. One of his shots finally nicked the edge of the target, but it was hardly encouraging. The two-dozenth one scraped his cheek, and he cursed a blue streak.

“Goodness,” Natasha muttered. “That looks raw. Best put something on it when you’re ready to go inside, Steve.”

“I think I’m ready to go inside,” Steve pronounced decisively, but Clint held his arm.

“No. Give it another go. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then you doubt yourself,” Natasha told him. “Which you should _never_ do. Again, Steve.” She stood behind him, her front flush against his back, and he shivered at the feeling of her breath against his neck. “Like this. Trust your eyes.” Her hand curled around his knuckles, helping him grip the bow, and she made him raise it just a fraction of an inch.

“That looks better,” Clint agreed. “Fix the angle of the arrow.”

“We will.” Natasha released Steve’s bow hand and sidled around to lightly prop her hand at Steve’s waist, encouraging his good posture while she adjusted the angle of his arrow. Steve felt awkward under her scrutiny and the stiflingly close guidance, and it was odd letting someone else control his movements, but he wanted to put forth his best effort. “Now. Let it go.”

She stepped back from him, and Steve released it, letting it fly. It wavered slightly but landed true, hitting the outer ring of the target. Steve’s eyes widened in delight. He turned and grinned at his instructors.

“That was a decent shot! It was, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Clint allowed. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Right.” Natasha handed him another arrow, and Steve’s smile collapsed into a low groan. “Go. Again.”

They shot, and they made Steve work on his aim and consistency for another hour. By the time they finished, the evening mosquitos were out and biting, and his arms felt like they would fall off, but Steve was satisfied that he began to hit the second ring of the target on a few of his shots. They put away their weapons and gear, and Clint clapped Steve on the back fondly.

“We’ll do it again tomorrow night. You can rest the night after that.”

“Why rest that ni- oh. Right.” The wedding. Of course. “Fair enough. It’s not like I’ll need to shoot much, anyway.”

“Don’t blaspheme in my presence, Rogers,” Natasha told him. She reached over and ruffled his hair. “We’ll make a fighter out of you yet.”

“He’s already a fighter,” Clint reminded her. “But now, we’ll make him _good_.”

“I don’t understand why you both think… Bucky.”

“Why we both think Bucky what?” Clint asked, confused, until he noticed the prince standing by the roses, watching them quizzically. “Good evening, sire.”

“Your Highness,” Natasha called out, curtsying in her leathers. The gesture didn’t fit with the absence of her gown. Bucky gave her a brief nod.

“Steve? A word. Walk with me.” Steve’s stomach clenched and he broke out into a sweat. _He’s going to be angry with me. Wanda told him what I said. He’ll have me thrown in stocks because I spoke to his bride out of turn, and-_ “Why were you at the practice field?”

“Clint and Natasha… they insisted,” Steve told him simply. “For some reason, they decided that I need to learn to shoot.” And heft a sword, he didn’t add.

“That’s… interesting,” Bucky murmured. They walked along through the garden, toward the west end of it, and Steve saw Bucky glance over his shoulder at Natasha and Clint’s retreating backs. The guards up atop the palace walls were keeping their nightly watch. “The maze.”

“What?”

“The maze. Come with me.”

“It’s already dark, Bucky, wouldn’t the library better if you- OH!” Bucky grabbed Steve’s hand and yanked him into a breathless sprint toward the box maze. “Bucky… blast it, Bucky, my legs aren’t as long as yours!” he huffed.

“Not much farther,” Bucky told him, panting slightly. “I just want you where no one can hear us.” That made Steve even more uncomfortable, and he wondered what Wanda told him, for this discussion to be so urgent.

“Bucky! Bucky, please, did I do something wrong, just tell me if-“ Bucky pulled him into the hedge, tugging him around the first two turns, and his words were cut off by Bucky’s mouth, hot, hard and demanding against his. Bucky’s hand was locked around Steve’s nape, and Steve clung to him helplessly, groaning at how good Bucky tasted, over how long it had been since he had last touched him. Steve realized belatedly that Bucky wasn’t angry with him, after all, before all sense left his head. Low sounds of need climbed up from Steve’s throat, and his fingers curled in Bucky’s shirt. Bucky’s arm snared him around the waist as they exchanged hungry kisses and stuttering breath. Steve found himself spun around, backed into the hedge wall and cushioned by the scratchy, manicured branches as Bucky drank his fill of him. Moments stretched into minutes, and the mosquitoes were draining him from various locations on his body, but Steve didn’t care. His body came alive beneath Bucky’s hands, and he strained against him for more, needing to be closer to him.

Bucky broke the kiss only to come up for air. “Steve,” he rasped, “I know I shouldn’t… I couldn’t… _not_ touch you. I just… I just needed…” Steve cradled Bucky’s face, and he was trembling, Bucky was trembling, and Steve couldn’t stand the look of heartbreak in his blue eyes.

“Why does this have to be wrong, Bucky?” Steve asked him as he stroked back the errant tendrils of hair from his face. “Why do I have to want you so much?”

“Because if you didn’t, I would want to die. I would want to die without you, Steve.” He kissed his brow, his temple, tracing the contour of his cheek reverently with his lips. “I love you, Steven Rogers.”

Steve shook his head miserably. “You can’t. You mustn’t, now.”

“Tell me how I’m supposed to stop, then.” Steve made a pained sound when Bucky kissed him again, and he clung to him even more tightly. 

“I can’t,” he said between kisses. “I’d be a hypocrite, when I’m already a fool. I love you, Bucky. My Bucky… you can never truly be my Bucky, can you?”

“I’ll always be yours, Steve. Always.” His lips trailed fire down the side of Steve’s neck, and Steve tipped his head to give him access. Bucky’s tongue swirled over his pulse, and Steve shuddered with pleasure, arms wrapped tightly around Bucky.

“I love you, God help me, Bucky. I love you.”

Passion flared between them, hot, swift and unchecked, and Bucky’s conscience sounded muffled over the hammering of his heart and Steve’s low moans of need and the whispers of his name in his husky voice. “Always yours, Steve,” he repeated into his skin as his fingers tore at the lacings of Steve’s shirt, untying them and letting the flaps gape open, exposing his smooth, fair skin. Bucky’s teeth scraped over Steve’s collarbones and he lapped at the phantom wounds he made. Steve arched into his touch, feeling Bucky’s hands stroke their way up under his shirt hem, tracing his ribs, smoothing over his flat belly. “Yours,” he breathed over him as he descended his body, nipping at him and kissing his way down through the thin, rough homespun of Steve’s clothing. “Yours, Steve. I’m yours.”

“Bucky…” He was kneeling before Steve, jerking up his shirt and kissing his belly. Steve’s abdomen jumped with the contact, and Bucky’s mouth felt hot, his kisses smoldering as they mapped out his body, and Steve’s hands found their way into Bucky’s hair, fingers combing through his soft waves.

“Take this off,” Bucky ordered hoarsely. “I need to see you…”

“We can’t do this here,” Steve argued, but he was already reluctantly letting go of Bucky just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside, because yes, he needed Bucky to touch him and kiss him everywhere, and those were his lush, soft pink lips caressing his nipple into a hard, needy little peak… Bucky suckled him, moaning at how Steve tasted, trapping the nub between his teeth while he lapped at his skin, seasoned with his sweat. Delicious tingles flooded through Steve’s body, racing toward the pressure of his mouth, and everything around Steve stilled completely. If the evening breeze was stroking over his skin, he couldn’t feel it, nor could he hear the cicadas or the low crunch of critters darting through the brush and leaving snapped leaves and twigs in their wake. Not while Bucky was devouring him by inches, worshipping his skin, cherishing his body, treating him like he was precious. Steve’s other nipple found rapture in Bucky’s mouth while he gently teased the first with clever fingers, and when Steve thought he would go mad from it, eyes clenched shut and head thrown back, taking shallow sips of breath, Bucky looked up at him, eyes dark with lust.

“I’m going to make love to you, Steve.”

“Don’t ruin your clothes,” Steve chided by way of giving him permission. “Phillip would never forgive you…”

“Love you,” Bucky husked. “Love you…” he breathed as he tugged at Steve’s buttons, fumbling with his waistband. He pried them open impatiently and sucked in a breath. Steve’s body was pale and smooth, with only the barest sprinkling of hair trailing down below his navel, leading to the soft, sandy thatch shielding his sex. His cock was smooth and already engorged, twitching when Bucky breathed over it and traced it with a curious fingertip. “Look at you, Steve…” Steve’s eyes were clenched shut, because he was still so uncertain what Bucky saw when he looked at him, he still wasn’t convinced that he was good enough for him-

Soft. Liquid. Warmth. It wrapped around him, coddling him, engulfing him and making him take leave of all reason. Steve’s trousers were hammocked around his thighs, but Bucky scraped them the rest of the way down as he sucked Steve farther into his mouth, and Steve’s fingers gently curled their way back into his hair. Bucky gripped Steve’s thighs to steady him as he did wicked things with his mouth. Bucky’s eyes were closed in rapture, and his breaths were uneven, nostrils flaring as he lapped and sucked. The head of Steve’s cock buffeted the inside of Bucky’s cheek, scraping the roof of his mouth, and he shuddered every time Bucky hummed or moaned, feeling the vibrations rattle all the way up his spine.

Bucky showed him through touch, with every caress, with his firm grip on him how he felt about Steve, that he was all he could ever want. Steve clung to him, gripping Bucky’s shoulders in an attempt to stay upright, but his knees were buckling from the exquisite sensations rolling through him. Bucky combed his fingers through the thatch of coarse curls at the base of Steve’s cock, swallowing Steve to the hilt. His throat flexed and pulsed around him, hands gripping his hips so hard he knew he would bruise, but Steve just didn’t care. Part of him longed for Bucky to mark him, somehow, to leave him with a reminder of this night, when he gave himself to the man he loved for the first – and last – time. Bucky was making needy, snuffling sounds, moaning and swallowing every drop that Steve leaked into his mouth, needing to consume Steve, needing to hear him… to see him fall apart-

To shatter _completely_. 

Steve’s body spasmed as his climax crashed through him like a wave against the shore. His cries were low but desperate, and his body arched into Bucky as he swallowed him down. He stared down into Bucky’s face, blue eyes pleading with him, _What have you done?_ Steve’s body went completely limp and his knees buckled. Bucky let him slide free of his mouth and caught him as Steve slid down to his knees. He held him curled against him, straddling his lap. Both of them were panting, hearts pounding, and Bucky’s hands were caressing him, lips wandering over Steve’s neck.

“ _Bucky._ God, Bucky…”

“Your face, Steve… when you found your pleasure…” Bucky cupped his face and stared into his eyes, “you were stunning.” Steve kissed him long and deep, arms coiling around him, and Steve only then realized that Bucky was still wearing all of his clothes. His hands tugged feverishly at his shirt. He needed to see him so badly that he ached with it, and he rucked up the hem in greedy handfuls as he drained kisses from Bucky’s mouth. Bucky felt that same urgency and lifted up his arms for Steve to rid him of the garment, and he sighed in relief at the sensation of skin on skin, which was _so much better_ as Steve ground himself down against his lap.

Bucky was beautiful sketched in moonlight, looming over Steve as he laid him back on the ground and shed his trousers, breeches and boots. He joined him in the grass, covering his body with his lean bulk, and Steve sighed in relief at the feel of him, satisfied at long last to be rid of the barriers between them. Between their bodies, Steve’s depleted flesh slowly twitched back to life. Bucky’s sought him out, throbbing and pushing up against him, and his warm slickness was leaking onto Steve’s belly. Steve kissed him hungrily, reaching down to cup him, ringing him in his grip, and Bucky made an anxious noise.

“Harder,” Bucky grated out. He groped himself harder at night, when he usually thought of Steve, and he groaned in approval when Steve obliged him, tugging on his engorged, rosy flesh. Steve leaned up and licked the cords of muscle in Bucky’s neck while he worked him in his hand, and Bucky thrust himself into Steve’s fist. Steve’s legs splayed wide as Bucky lined their bodies up, and he covered Steve’s fist, adjusting his grip to include his cock, too, within the ring of his long, slender fingers. He thrust against him in earnest, and Steve’s face, then, at that moment… Bucky was thoroughly lost in Steve. They moved together, a frantic blur of thrusting hips and sliding skin, so much friction and heat between them, and Bucky was close, oh, so close to reaching his peak. His muscles burned and the grass beneath them chafed his knees and abraded Steve’s tender back. Bucky was throbbing, grunting with each push, huffing Steve’s name through clenched teeth. Steve’s wrist burned and cramped, but he worked them both, thumb slicking through the salty wetness dribbling from Bucky’s plump cock, easing their progress to completion.

Bucky’s cry when his climax hit him was guttural and desperate, thrusting up against Steve so hard that he saw stars. He jerked and arched, face wracked by shock and indescribable pleasure. The veins in his throat were etched in sharp relief, cords of muscle strained taut, and his eyes were wide with wonder at what Steve did to him. Steve worked him through it when his hips faltered, unable to thrust any further, and his seed continued to spill in thick dribbles over Steve’s fist.

“You… Steve… “

“I’ve got you,” he told him softly. “That’s it… I’ve got you…” Bucky collapsed against him, arms useless to support him. His breathing was ragged, sawing out of his chest. Sweat cooled on their skin, and Bucky’s hair was plastered to his skin. He felt Steve’s pulse in his throat where his cheek rested against it.

He felt Steve’s cock twitch between them and made a startled sound. “What…? You-you didn’t come?”

“Not that time, no,” Steve apologized weakly, as he reached up and smoothed Bucky’s hair back from his face, but his brows beetled when Bucky gave him a determined look and slid back down his body. “Bucky, what are you-Bucky? Bucky?!” Steve threw his head back, and his eyes rolled up into his head when Bucky’s mouth found his cock again. “Damn it, Bucky… oh, God… you don’t have… to…”

It was never wise to argue with the prince when he had his mind set on something. Steve came minutes later, shivering and boneless as Bucky gathered him into his arms.

“Twice,” Steve sputtered, panting into Bucky’s neck. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re trying to kill me.”

“I did you a service. I couldn’t let you walk back into the castle like that.”

“What kind of world is this where the prince does the servant favors like this?” Steve wondered. Bucky snickered, then kissed his chin lightly. They were sprawled on the ground, and Steve flicked away an ant that was crawling up his leg. “You realize this was wrong.”

“Fully,” Bucky told him dreamily.

“It can’t happen again,” Steve told him firmly. His arms tightened around Bucky.

“Never again.”

“We must never speak of it.” Steve wondered if Bucky could hear his heart breaking.

“Not one word.”

“All right. Then we’re agreed.”

“Agreed.” This was murmured into the soft, tender spot behind Steve’s ear.

Bucky allowed Steve to roll him onto his back to prolong their good-nights to each other. They were sticky, dirty and stiff from their time on the cold ground by the time they crept back into the house, but they didn’t care. Bucky regretted that he only had Phillip to offer him the bath, wishing heartily that his hands were Steve’s as they studiously washed his hair, plucking out the errant twigs from his damp locks. Phillip didn’t say a word.

Steve made it back to his lonely chamber, lighting a solitary candle and washing up with a basin and pitcher before crawling between the sheets. Only then did he let himself weep for what could never be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and for the RECORD, I wasn't gonna write smut yet. Bucky threatened me and my muses with writer's block if I didn't let him boink Steve. Seriously...
> 
> Bucky: I want Steve. None of this 'slow burn, pining' shit. I wanna bone the blond. Gimme.  
> Me: Um. No. Not yet. There's plot that needs developing, and you're marrying Wanda.  
> Bucky: I'll make you put this story down for five years. I'm warning you.  
> Me: o.O  
> Bucky: In the maze would be nice.  
> Me: ... 
> 
> *waddles off to write smut*


	7. Intoxicated, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the chapel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This should round up this chunk of the story. If it was one chapter from when Wanda was introduced to the wedding, it would have come close to thirty pages.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it so far. This went from simple and fluffy to an angsty monstrosity.

Everything itched.

Bucky despised his stuffy, fussy wedding attire, but his mother was so proud when she gave him a final once-over after Phillip put the finishing touches on him. "Do I pass muster, Mother?"

"You clean up nicely enough," she deadpanned, but she furtively wiped away a tear. "You are your father all over again." She touched his cheek and sighed. "I see him in your smile..." He attempted to muster one for her, but she wasn't fooled. "What's the matter, James? Are you truly averse to this wedding?"

"I'm sorry. It's all been so sudden, and..."

"It's unsettling. You feel afraid of what's next, don't you, sweetheart?"

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief; at least she seemed to understand. "Yes."

"It's all right to feel afraid." Winifred took his hand, stroking it. "No one will judge you."

"I will judge myself. There's no place for fear at a wedding," Bucky told her. His eyes were downcast. "I want to make Father proud and do what's best for all of us."

"You have. And you will."

Bucky turned and stared into the mirror over the vanity. He resented the stiffness of the jacket and breeches and how snug the boots felt on over his toes, but he had to admit the tailors did an excellent job with the cut and drape of the garments. The rich shade of blue brought out his eyes and made a perfect backdrop for his skin and dark hair. The ruffled lace trimming the cuffs and neck of his shirt itched abominably - truly, he couldn't _wait_ to shed those clothes once the banquet ended - but the look was elegant and stylish, a far cry from the rough leathers and homespuns that he wore out on the practice field when he helped to train the pages, sparred with the knights, or rode on horseback.

"Have you seen my bride yet?" he murmured. Winifred stared over his shoulder at his reflection and gently brushed off lint from the shoulders of his jacket.

"Indeed. She cleans up nicely, too." Her soft mouth curved up in a mischievous smile that Bucky returned.

"Then, I guess that clinches it. I'll meet her at the altar, after all..." Winifred swatted him.

"Don't make me send Natasha after you."

*

Steve drank another cup of black tea with honey to boost his energy before he resumed his work on the flowers. He surveyed his handiwork with a sigh of resignation.

It would be the first time that anyone could remember the chapel being decorated with a profusion of red roses. Steve honored Wanda's request once Winifred approved it, and he guessed that Wanda saw the riot of blooming shrubs and was taken with their beauty. They had special meaning for him, remembering two occasions in his life when a beautiful boy brought him a red rose.

Bunches of roses mingled with ferns and sprays of simple wildflowers were tied with long reeds and hung from the ends of the pews and around the candlesticks. A larger, grander arrangement sat upon the altar. The roses gave up their rich fragrance and continued to evoke memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Every time he closed his eyes, the vision of Bucky's face looming over him, rapt with need for him - for _him_ \- haunted him, making his heart twist in his chest.

Now, more than ever, Bucky was off-limits. Steve's vision of his existence stretched forward with the promise of loneliness and heartbreak, devoid of his voice, the way it sounded after dark, and his touch, so often furtive, but it possessed him fully. It hurt, truly, to watch Wanda when she was with him, slender hand tucked into the curve of his arm and smiling up at him with affection, fast-developing and warm. They were a beautiful couple, and the entire kingdom held the consensus that their union was meant to be. What Bucky had with Steve was forbidden. No one would sanction it, and Steve could lose his life if the king and queen or their advisors got wind of anything between them. Sarah's final injunction to him to give Bucky up haunted him every night when he closed his eyes.

He'd been up since dawn working on the flowers in the chapel, ballroom and banquet hall after enduring a fitful, restless night's sleep. Bucky's scent had already faded from Steve's bed linens, but there were moments where he still imagined him, picturing his long, tousled dark hair fanned out over the pillow, and Bucky's soft mouth smirking up at him. Steve made himself indispensable to the kitchen staff and stewards, helping them to move and set tables with lavish gold-rimmed plates and brightly polished silverware. He folded cloth napkins and wiped down crystal goblets until they shone. He lit flames under chafing dishes and emptied pots and filled serving bowls, earning words of praise from Cook and an offer of a bit of the roast lamb, which Steve eschewed, having no taste for it. Unease knotted his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to the day's events, and he offered up a falsely bright smile in response to the kitchen staff's gossip. Steve vacillated between making himself useful, then scarce.

Cook leaned in toward Natasha and murmured, "Long face on that one, isn't it?" as Steve retreated from the kitchen, struggling under a large tureen.

"He's fine," Natasha assured her. "Pay him no mind." Her green eyes clouded with worry for a moment before her face resumed its calm mask.

Steve's final duty was the one that twisted the knife most sharply into his heart. He went upstairs, legs feeling leaden as he delivered the elaborate bouquet of red roses and assorted exotic flowers to the bridal suite. Steve knocked briskly and waited in the corridor, face deceptively placid.

Wanda's lady-in-waiting answered, giving him and his simple garb a dubious look at first, until she glanced down at the bouquet. Her face rearranged itself into one of enthusiastic approval. "Oh, that will do nicely! It's absolutely beautiful, dear boy, thank you for delivering it!" She swooped down and scooped it out of his hands, and Steve felt, just for a moment, a frisson of panic.

"There are no thorns," he stammered. "I... I promise, milady." Her brows rose.

"I believe you. Carry on, now."

"Please! Please, milady, would you... would you extend my best wishes to the bride?" The words sounded hollow to his own ears and tasted like dust in his mouth. His posture was tense and stiff, his fists clenched at his sides. "Wish her all the... all the joy and blessings she deserves from this union, milady."

"What a... lovely sentiment," she remarked as she withdrew from him, stepping back inside from the doorway. "I will be certain to convey that to her Majesty-"

"He can tell me himself," Wanda asserted from her elbow. Her lady-in-waiting was aghast and tried to shoo her back from the door, but Wanda gently took her arm. "Go and set that down," she beckoned. "I'll only be a moment."

"But... but, Majesty! You cannot leave the room now, the groom might see you too soon! It's bad luck!" her maid stammered, looking as though she swallowed a fly.

"There's no need to fret," she insisted. "A moment is all I need. Thank you, madam." Then, "Go on, now." Wanda's eyes met Steve's, and the corner of her mouth curled briefly. Steve felt tingles of panic rush through him at her touch as she tugged him into an adjacent, empty storage room.

Away from her ladies-in-waiting, her expression changed from calm to anxious. "You didn't just come to deliver a nosegay to a nervous bride." Steve exhaled a breath that he'd been stifling at her words.

"You shouldn't be nervous," he assured her. "And... I meant nothing by... I didn't want to make you _more_ nervous... Majesty, I only wanted to wish you well. I apologize sincerely if I-"

"Stop stammering like a child," she ordered. "Steven, I know you may want closure." She sighed and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I have an inkling of what Bucky means to you."

"What you're suggesting... please don't. Let's not discuss this. We shouldn't be discussing it. It's wrong, the thing that you're suggesting... not your suggestion, just the thing itself... oh, hell..."

"You're stammering again." And he was trembling. Steve's throat began to close up as he tried to swallow down his fear and building anguish.

"Majesty," he told her, "I know this is an unusual situation. This wedding is abrupt-"

"At best," she interjected dryly.

"-but Bucky... er, Prince Bucky, is a good man. He's kind and honorable, and he will treat you with utmost regard, respect and affection."

"Affection," Wanda mused aloud. "That's always nice."

"You've met him. You've spent some time with him. You don't have to be anxious about your future with you groom - husband," he corrected himself, still feeling tongue-tied. "He will treat you well. I truly feel you will grow to love him."

"There's the fly in the ointment, what you've just said, Steve. I will grow to love him, supposedly, even though his heart may belong to someone else."

_I love you... I love you..._ Bucky's passionate words in the dark, murmured into Steve's flesh while they were in the maze came back to him in a rush, and he paled.

"No. He will love you," Steve pronounced. "He will give you his heart." Steve's was breaking as he spoke those words. "He will treat you so well, your Majesty." _As he has treated me,_ Steve didn't add.

"Steve?" Wanda offered. "Thank you for your blessing. And your kind reassurances. If all of the palace's staff treat me with even a fragment of the kindness you have shown me... then I will feel very welcome, indeed. In spite of the unusual circumstances." She cracked a smile, and surprisingly, it reached her eyes, again so much like Bucky's that Steve ached. "You have to admit, this is a big production in such a short time."

"Her Majesty the Queen has a gift for it," Steve admitted.

"You have my thanks, for the lovely flowers." She was about to take her leave, and Steve rushed to the door to open it for her, but he paused.

"Princess Wanda," he said. She faced him, and she saw the pain in his eyes so clearly, despite the serene smile he attempted. "I know my place. Over the years, I was indulged and allowed to befriend the prince." He managed to keep his voice steady. "That may have been improper."

"Ridiculous." Wanda took his hand and squeezed it, a gesture he wasn't expecting. "You serve us. It isn't a crime to show us fondness, Steve." She paused. "Within _reason._ "

Steve blushed to the roots of his hair and had to look away. He opened the door for her, and she sailed out in a swirl of white silk. Steve left the storage room and resumed his duties in a daze, feeling raw but resigned.

*

The courtyard teemed with throngs of wedding guests, and a low hum of gossip and speculation spread throughout the crowd. Inside the castle, the staff put finishing touches in the preparations and helped the wedding party complete grooming rituals. Winifred rode herd on her younger children, making sure they were all accounted for and kept under tight rein by their governess. Willie looked glum, while his sisters were jittery and bouncing with excitement. Fiona spied Natasha as she swept around the corner in her rich blue gown, and she ran to her, despite Winifred's discouraging tsk.

"Natasha!" she cried, tugging on her sleeve, "my brother's getting married!"

"No! He is?" Natasha inquired, feigning surprise. "I thought it was your birthday today, Princess Fiona."

"Noooo!" Fee giggled, shaking her head with emphasis. "Wanda's going to be my new sister!" Natasha nodded soberly, reaching down to gently smooth down her curls.

"Indeed. You're a lucky lady to gain another one, and she's lucky to get you, too." Fiona beamed. Becca came over to relieve Natasha her little tagalong, taking Fiona's hand.

"Let's go with Mother," she suggested kindly. Fiona obeyed reluctantly; she hero-worshipped Natasha and shadowed her incessantly, as Natasha's time and her governess and mother allowed. Natasha resumed her original mission, continuing down the corridor to the prince's suite.

Bucky turned at the sound of her brisk knock. He didn't move from the edge of the balcony, where he lingered, breathing in the fresh air and composing himself. "Enter," he called out. Natasha let herself inside and locked the door after herself.

"Is this the moment when you tell me not to have cold feet?" Bucky asked calmly. Natasha joined him out on the balcony, confident in all of the pins holding her elaborate coif in place not to fail her in the face of the building breeze.

"No. Wouldn't dream of it." She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, squeezing it. "You know what you have to do. What's expected of you. Obviously."

"I sometimes hate it when you're so pragmatic, Natalia."

"One of us has to be, Highness."

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

"It's as nice a day as any to kiss one's freedom goodbye." He made a disgusted noise and elbowed her, briefly, and her answering smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "You'll make it worse for him, you know. If you let him see that you're unhappy." She followed his line of vision, where he studiously watched the master gardener heading into the shed to harvest some herbs.

"I would never knowingly hurt him or place that kind of burden on him." He pulled away from her, not before she felt the tension tightening his body. "He's my servant. I'm his sovereign. That line won't blur itself anymore, the way it did before."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself, Prince Bucky?"

"I don't have to convince you," he told her curtly. His voice had a hard edge. The line between staff and master often blurred between Bucky and Natasha, too, when she offered him hard truths, often without being asked.

"No. You don't." She took his arm again. "Shall we go to the chapel, Highness?"

"It's time," he agreed. "Let's not keep Mother and Father waiting." He gave Steve one last look when he came out of the shed, his blue eyes filled with longing and regret before Natasha escorted him out of his suite.

Steve felt someone’s eyes on him, drinking him in. He turned at just the moment that Bucky and Natasha left the balcony, and his throat felt tight. “You have my blessing, Majesty,” he murmured quietly. Steve kept himself busy; the wedding was only a celebration for the guests and family, truly, not the servants like him. There was no place at the banquet table for the king’s gardener to toast the bride and groom.

*

The king and queen’s arrival at the chapel was heralded by bugles, drums and fifes. George was escorted by his manservant and Stephen, his healer; Winifred strode in after him, managing to look regal yet somber in her blue gown and gold coronet. She arranged her face into a serene smile as they proceeded down the runner. She inhaled sharply as she entered the church, breathing in the heady scent of roses, stunned by the riot of blossoms occupying the space. Her gardener’s eye for design and pride in his work showed in every arrangement and on every pew and altar. She arrived at the front pew of the church where were children were seated, and she took Fiona’s hand as she squeezed in beside her.

“Look how pretty, Mama,” she whispered eagerly.

“Indeed, sweetheart.”

“Steve did this for us,” she pronounced.

“It’s his duty,” Winifred explained, but she wouldn’t quell her daughter’s delight in the flowers. “But he takes pride in it. It _is_ nice,” she agreed, and Fiona beamed.

There was a hush over the crowd as Bucky entered, posture perfect, boots gleaming, and face resigned. Every woman in the room marveled at how handsome he looked in his finery, how much like George had as a young man, the same rich, sable brown hair, the luminous blue eyes, the strong bone structure and wicked cleft in his chin.

He strode to the front of the chapel and stood beside his parents’ pew, knelt as part of the ceremony and kissed his mother’s hand, then his father’s as a symbol of his filial respect and his acceptance of the future responsibility as king. 

“I love you, my son,” Winifred told him.

“You make me proud,” George rasped, coughing slightly and looking slightly gray. Stephen leaned over and handed him a handkerchief, then waved an infusion of camphor and eucalyptus under his nose to ease his discomfort. Bucky stood and waited beside the vicar for his bride to arrive. He heard low sighs and whispers of wonder as she entered the church, and Bucky was struck by her beauty and dignified bearing. Her smile was radiant as she caught sight of him at the end of the aisle. Pietro escorted her down, elegantly dressed and solemn; no one noticed how tight his grip on his sister’s hand was, nor could they know how reluctant he was to give her away in marriage to someone he had known no longer than a week. Wanda was all Pietro had, and he would protect her fiercely.

Wyndham’s nod was firm, his eyes brittle even as he smiled, and Pietro released Wanda, gently urging her toward Bucky with his hand at her lower back. His blue eyes searched Pietro’s, piercing and full of warnings, practically shouting _If you mistreat my sister, I will come back and horsewhip you in the courtyard._ Bucky nodded to him, acknowledging him silently, and he took Wanda’s hand. She handed her nosegay – so lovingly designed by their master gardener – to her lady in waiting as the vicar began the ceremony.

“Do you, Prince James Buchanan Barnes, take Princess Wanda Maximoff as your lawfully wedded wife, with all before bearing witness?”

“I do.” Bucky took the ring from the blue velvet cushion that Willie held, and his brother smiled encouragingly. That gave Bucky the momentum he needed when his hand hesitated with the ring poised over the tip of Wanda’s left finger. Bucky swallowed around a lump and met Wanda’s eyes.

Her smile was kind but resigned, and he knew then that whatever their fate, at least she was willing to try. It would have to be enough. Understanding shone in her eyes, but not love. Pain lanced through his chest, and his hand shook as he finally slid the ring down her finger. Wanda recited her vows dutifully and with dignity, and her touch was almost reverent, unerringly gentle, as she gave him his ring. She squeezed his hand.

“It feels like ice,” she whispered. 

“It’s all right,” he mouthed back. 

“It’s all right to be anxious,” the vicar mentioned casually, loudly enough for the guests to hear, and a ripple of laughter traveled through the crowd.

The blessings were bestowed while they both knelt at the altar and while the candles were lit. Scriptures were shared and the vicar called the congregation to stand.

“May I present the future King and Queen,” he intoned. The guests bowed and knelt accordingly. Slender circlets of silver were placed on their heads for the ceremony; at Bucky’s coronation, he would take the gold crown. He didn’t relish its weight. The vicar beckoned to Bucky, who lifted Wanda’s veil. His touch was light as he tipped her face up to his kiss, perfunctory and soft.

At first.

Wanda drew back and smiled impishly up at him, then cupped his nape, drawing him back down for another. His breath caught at the intensity of it, and he made a low sound of amused surprise. Her mouth was hot and pliant.

Pietro cleared his throat loudly a few feet away. When they broke the kiss, the back of Bucky’s hair was slightly rumpled and his cheeks were flushed. Wanda’s eyes flitted down for a moment, then crinkled as she smiled up at him.

Oh, but she would get him in trouble.

Sadly, that reminded him of Steve.

They exited the church to a hail of applause, and the music followed them out as the led the procession to the banquet hall.

Steve heard the music and revelry from his shed. He hadn’t been dismissed from his duties to attend the wedding, which was just as well. Whether that was kindness on George and Winifred’s part, or it was a sobering reminder of his status – and his promise to Wanda – remained to be seen. It was too much. He swallowed down the bitterness and went about his work, deciding it was best to remain out of sight until he was summoned.

Someone would have to clear the flowers from the church.

*

The wedding banquet was sumptuous, almost excessive in its offerings of succulent, rich foods and costly wines. The king’s knights mingled with the guests, hobnobbing with earls, dukes, and counts, garbed in tunics with the royal seal. Brock didn’t stray far from the king and queen’s table. Wanda caught Bucky glancing balefully at him from time to time through supper.

“You’re staring holes in his head,” she murmured. “You don’t care for him?”

“About as much as I care for a sharp stone in my shoe,” he said with a shrug. “He’s strong and skilled, and he swore loyalty to the crown when he was just a page.”

“And?”

“He’s a smug, nasty bastard,” Bucky finished.

“Bravo!” Wanda chuckled. “Tell me how you really feel, husband.” The word sounded so strange to his ears. He stiffened slightly when she covered his hand with hers, but she continued to smile. “You can, you know.”

“When we were children, he was a bully.”

“Not to you?” she pressed, brows drawing together slightly.

“No. Not to me.” Bucky quaffed his wine, signaling an end to that discussion.

“I don’t care for bullies much, myself.”

They adjourned to the ballroom as the staff began to remove the finished courses and chafing dishes, moving quickly to begin serving an assortment of drinks as the dancing began. Dance cards began to fill up and the children’s governess found herself hard pressed to chase them about when they began getting into mischief. Bucky and Wanda danced together as easily and skillfully as they had the night they met, and they changed partners just as frequently when it was called for. Wanda danced with Pietro, and he stared down at her, assessing her mood.

“How does it feel?” he asked softly.

“Strange. Frightening,” she admitted. “And still not right.”

“It’s for the best,” he said.

“We both know that’s not true.” Her words made Pietro stifle a grimace, then recover his too-correct smile for the onlookers that commented on what good looking siblings they were, how graceful.

“I hate this,” Pietro told her. “I… I want to like him. I _do_ like him.”

“No one ever said life was fair.” She stared out at Bucky, waltzing smoothly with Winifred, whose eyes were shining with happy tears. “It was never our lot in life to determine our own paths, brother.”

“This one will lead to ruin.” Those words. They evoked a shiver and a torrent of bitter memories, echoes of dreams that haunted Wanda every night.

A loose carriage wheel. Shying horses. The crashing of shattered wood and buckling metal, interspersed with screams… _the screams,_ blood-curdling and filled with despair…

She experienced the moment as though she was in the carriage, seeing everything through her mother’s eyes when her gift manifested itself. Pietro picked up traces of her impressions through the bond that they shared, hating that she shouldered most of the burden of her parents’ deaths – every excruciating moment – on her own. He ached with the helplessness of not being able to lift it from her. Her screams the night that it happened woke up the entire wing of the castle, and she couldn’t be consoled. She kept shrieking and weeping as their governess rocked her, sobbing out “the wheel. It was the wheel…” 

“Whatever you do, Pietro… I don’t want you to resent him. This isn’t his fault.”

“He agreed to it.” His cheeks darkened with the anger that he was trying to suppress. “He’s a party to this farce.”

“It would have dishonored his family if he hadn’t taken part in it.” Wanda smiled, too, at the guests who were watching them and gossiping to throw them off. “We will talk of this no more tonight, brother. Spin me.” He gave her a long-suffering sigh and did as she asked, and her laughter bubbled out of her, no differently than it had during the first ball, when she was a ball of energy and mischief, lighting up the room in her red gown.

Wanda looked up from a conversation she was having with a duchess about the best herbs for soothing gout and other complaints when her uncle approached, taking her arm. She tensed with brief resentment, but kept her smiling mask in place. “Good evening, Uncle Herbert.”

“I haven’t danced with the bride yet,” he mentioned easily. “Shall we?”

“We shall, sir.” Her tone was teasing, but there was ice in her eyes as she took the floor with him, murmuring apologies to the duchess as she was removed. “Try the claret. It’s delicious.”

“It’s a hair too sweet for me.”

“Red wine is good for your constitution, Uncle.”

“So some say.” His grip tightened on her hand, and his arm around her waist felt like an iron band. “Remember what you have to do, dearest niece.”

“I would never forget.” Her jaw felt tight. “I _never_ forget, Uncle.” They slowed as they were about to change direction, and his eyes grew flinty. At that moment, she knew she’d said too much.

“Don’t defy me, child.” His voice was wintry and brittle. “You have a duty to your family and your kingdom. I’m the only family you and your brother have. I sheltered you. I cared for you-“

“Did you?” she challenged, smile still in place, but it was faltering, wobbling around the edges. “Did you care, Uncle Herbert? Truly?”

“Watch your tongue, niece.”

So many words threatened to spill defiantly from her lips. _When I’m queen, I will be out of your reach, you foul, murderous old bastard! Your deeds will reveal themselves like filthy stains. Your soul will burn for what you’ve done, the heinous things you’ve allowed…_ She wanted to tear his hands off of her and wash away his odious touch, cleanse away the crawling sensations moving over her skin as he stared at her like she was his possession.

More accurately, like Wanda was his _weapon._

But they finished their dance blithely, looking for all the world like an uncle just as proud as he would be if Wanda was his own daughter, and a bride feeling regret only for the fact that joining her new family meant leaving her old one behind. As they should, indeed, look.

Bucky frowned at them over the rim of his wine goblet as he took another sip. Something wasn’t quite right.

*

They finally drifted upstairs as the festivities drew to a close. Wanda kissed George and Winifred and the children goodnight, accepting a crushing, genuine hug from Fiona.

“I’m so happy you’re my sister, now,” she told her sleepily. Wanda gently tweaked her nose.

“So am I, lovey. Off to bed, now, and have the sweetest, loveliest dreams.” Willie, Becca and Fee headed off to their suite, and Wanda watched George and Winifred retire, with Stephen the healer by their side. Wanda paused. “Winifred… er, Mother?” The queen turned back for a moment with an expectant smile, letting George continue without her.

“Yes, dear?”

“I had Eustace bring up a present for George. A fine brandy from my uncle’s own collection. Perhaps offer him some before bed, with my family’s blessings?”

“That’s lovely, dear. Thank you. Sleep well, Wanda.”

“Thank you… Mother.” Winifred turned and continued to her suite, not catching the thick tone of Wanda’s voice or the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. She went to her suite – Bucky’s suite – and found it empty, to her relief. She closed it, leaving it unlocked for the moment, pacing the chamber and wringing her hands. “Why must you make me do this?” Wanda cried to the unhearing walls. “Forgive me… please, forgive me.” The voices from her dreams came back, drowning her, evoking chaos in her heart. Her uncle’s voice rose above the clamor, cool and brusque.

_Take care of it._ Wanda’s heart was pounding and her hands lost all warmth, certainly colder than Bucky’s when he took his vows.

A low knock at the door stirred her from her fit of pique, and composed herself quickly, turning away from the door and striding to the mirror. “Come in,” she said shakily. She smoothed her hair in the mirror and pinched her cheeks to give them color… they’d gone gray since talking to Winifred.

“Wanda?” Bucky asked shyly. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No. Not, not really, dear.”

“Dear?” Bucky’s lips curled into a little smirk. “That’s new.”

“Is it wrong?” she asked, worried.

“No. Just… different.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Would you like me to send up one of your ladies to help you prepare for bed?”

If she looked overly relieved at his suggestion – he wasn’t offering to help her himself, not yet, obviously unsure about taking that next step as she was – he didn’t judge her for it. “I would appreciate that,” she told him. Bucky rang for her servant, who had two of the stewards bring up Wanda’s trunk, moving it from the guest suite. He left the chamber so she could prepare for bed. Bucky decided that she was entitled to her modesty, and he wouldn’t add to her discomfort – their discomfort – on their wedding night. It was the very least he could do.

He went to his father’s study, as he typically did when he needed a moment to think. He wasn’t expecting to find Clint and Natasha there. Both were still in their wedding finery, and surprisingly, still sober. 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Natasha accused.

“She needs time,” Bucky murmured.

Natasha nodded. “Ah.”

“Regrets?” Clint prodded.

“Don’t ask him that!” Natasha scolded, boxing his ear and making him yelp. Then she turned to Bucky and asked, “Do you? Have you any regrets?”

“Hey!” Clint was indignant, and she ducked his attempt to swat her. “That’s not fair!”

“It’s not worth contemplating what could have been, if it’s not meant to be,” Bucky told them. “I have a wife.” He sat down heavily on an ottoman and raked his fingers through his hair, then laughed raggedly. “I have a wife!”

“You do,” Natasha agreed.

“What if I disappoint her?” Bucky’s eyes searched Natasha’s, and his posture was defeated, face bleak. “I can’t dishonor Father, I can’t, Natasha, I just-“

“James. James Buchanan Barnes. You _won’t._ ”

Bucky reached up and silently gripped his chest, shaking his head. He tried to speak, and his lips were working, trying to form the words, but Natasha covered them with her fingertips, hushing him. “Don’t,” she told him. “You haven’t considered the possibilities. You have a wife. A queen. Thrust into this just as you were. If you do nothing else, James, give her a chance. Give _yourself_ a chance to do well by her. This isn’t just about duty.”

What she didn’t say spoke so much about who she was. Natasha and Clint served the royal family by offering their protection, a duty that wasn’t for the faint of heart. Natasha didn’t entertain the dreams of having a husband or a gaggle of children and living a sedate life, content to tend a hearth and mend torn stockings. She also didn’t tell Bucky that the thought of love, a true union of two hearts, scared her to death. She was pragmatic about his arranged marriage, knowing that happiness could never be considered the main goal, but it could still be a coincidence.

He didn’t tell them that his heart belonged to someone else, or that it was shattered at the moment. They knew.

“She can dance,” Clint told Bucky. “Small comfort, but… it’s something you both like. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up, already,” Natasha scolded. 

“I’m just helping him find a silver lining!” Clint argued.

“No! You’re just making the cloud itself even bigger!” Natasha and Clint continued to bicker, and Bucky snickered, laughing outright as Natasha rounded on Clint to swat him again, and he began to actually _duck_ from her reach and dart around the chamber. Clint evaded her, then shoved Bucky in front of himself as a shield.

“Hey!” Bucky was the one ducking Natasha’s raised hand, suddenly, and he scrambled off the ottoman, but Clint continued to try to hide behind him. Natasha’s eyes were gleaming dangerously, but the corner of her mouth curled up in a smirk. Clint’s blue eyes suddenly looked fearful.

“Uh-oh…”

Before he could even beg for mercy, Natasha nimbly kicked her foot between Bucky’s legs and tripped up Clint, knocking his feet out from under him. He fell back with a thud and a loud “whhoulllff!” and Bucky backed away, holding up his hands.

“Your quarrel is with Clint!” he insisted, and he was laughing unchecked.

“That… was very unladylike conduct, Miss Romanova,” Clint huffed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes with an exasperated breath. Natasha was gracious enough to reach down to help him up.

Clint’s leg darted out, sweeping her off her feet in nearly the same fashion. “What…? Why, you…!” Bucky was wiping a tear from his eye at the expressions on the two of them, still on the floor staring accusingly at each other.

“Sire?” Phillip hovered at the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged. “Er… her Majesty said that it’s all right for you to return to the chamber. She’s, er, ready to retire.” Bucky’s laughter died, but he smiled at his manservant.

“Thank you, Mr. Coulson.” Bucky reached down and helped his friends off the floor. Natasha stuck her tongue out at Clint, who repaid her in kind. “You’re such children,” Bucky muttered once Phillip left the room.

“She started it,” Clint insisted under his breath.

“I’ll get you back, Barton. Just you wait.” Natasha preceded him out of the room, cutting her eyes at him as she went.

Bucky returned to his suite, and his hand hesitated for a moment before he knocked. Wanda beckoned him inside, and her lady-in-waiting nodded to him, then curtsied before she took her leave. Wanda stood beside the bed, freshly bathed and dressed in a soft white nightgown edged in lace, voluminous and comfortable. The gauzy fabric was sheer enough that he could see the outline of her curves, and despite himself, his mouth went dry. His wife _was_ very beautiful, certainly. Her long brown hair gleamed, rippling down her back. She led him to the chair beside the vanity, gesturing to a flagon of wine and two gold goblets.

“Share a cup of wine with me, husband. Let’s toast our union.”

“What would you like to make a toast to, wife?” He allowed her to pour the wine and serve him, and he reached for her, resting his hand at her waist to draw her closer. A flush rose up in her cheeks, and her smile was almost bashful. 

“Health. Happiness.”

“Health,” he repeated, shrugging. “Happiness… sounds ambitious.” She chuckled.

“Humor me?”

“All right.” He took up the goblet and attempted a solemn expression. “Here’s to a long-lasting, bountiful union,” he pronounced. Wanda burst into giggles at his face and tone.

“Bountiful?”

“We haven’t discussed that,” Bucky mentioned. “It’s certainly spelled out in the marriage contract.”

“The contract,” she repeated, sighing. “Yes, that.” She raised her glass, and nodded for Bucky to raise his. “To a bountiful union between us. To peace between our kingdoms.”

“Kingdom,” he corrected her. She smiled awkwardly, and they drank as one, savoring the sweet red wine. Bucky set down his empty cup, and he drew her closer to him, letting his arm slide around her waist, until she stood between his spread legs. “Wife,” he murmured. 

“Husband,” she whispered, and she bent down and caressed his lips with hers, sharing the lingering taste of the wine. He made a low sound of approval at how soft she felt, at the satiny feel of her hair sifting through his fingers. “Husband,” she husked, pausing, breathing fast as she stared into his eyes.

Hers glowed red.

“Sleep,” she pronounced.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his arm fell slack as he collapsed in the chair. She had to catch him to stop him from crumpling to the floor.


	8. Trousseau Full of Arrows, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A honeymoon. An attack.
> 
> A funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been away from this. I'm horrible. Did I mention I'm horrible? Expect more angst. Expect more Wanda. Expect more treachery in George's court. Expect more pining and noble behavior from Steve.
> 
> Does that chapter title say "Part I?" Oopsie. *runs off, throws cookies in my wake*

"I think you should take this one," Fee said meaningfully as she held her wrist up for inspection. Wanda's diamond-crusted gold bracelet dangled from it, incongruously large compared to her tiny hand. Wanda beamed and patted Fee's dark curls.

"Lovely, isn't it? You have exquisite taste," she told her youngest sister-in-law. "But I fear that I will not have anyone to wear it for who would appreciate it." Fee wrinkled her brow, an expression that rendered her even more adorable.

"Why not?"

"It will just be me and Bucky at the cottage, darling. And a few servants, at most. I have no one to spruce up for, and no balls to attend-"

"You can still wear your pretty jewels. If I had jewels, I would wear them every day!" Fee insisted. The bracelet made its way back into the velvet-lined, oak box, despite how reluctant its wearer was to return it. Wanda smiled down at her.

"I'm sure you would, Fiona. You're a far more proper princess than I am, I'm afraid." Fiona pouted, and she hurried over to the window seat across the suite, planting herself there. Her expression shuttered itself, and Wanda felt her whole mood darken. "What's the matter, Fiona?"

"You're not a proper princess at all, anymore. You're going to have to be Queen. Papa is sick," Fee told her. "Doctor Stephen isn't making him better like Mother promised he would."

Wanda felt a wave of sympathy for her. She knelt before her and took her tiny hands, squeezing them. "Your mother isn't breaking her promise, Fee. She had high hopes that he would make your father well again, herself, and she shared those hopes with you. She wants him well just as much as you do."

"I'm scared, Wanda. I love Papa. I want him well again."

"I know, sweetheart. Girls need their papas. We really do." She wrapped her a tight hug, rubbing Fiona's back. "We should do something nice for him. Would you like to go out and pick some flowers to bring to him with his tea?" She withdrew and smiled at Fiona's solemn, vigorous nod.

"Yes, please."

"We'll find the prettiest, sweetest ones. And you can visit Steven, too. That might brighten his day."

"Wanda? When are you and Bucky going in the carriage?" Fiona often enjoyed the journey more than the destination when she traveled with her family, and riding in the carriage was one of her favorite things.

"Tomorrow," Wanda reminded her. "You can help me gather my trousseau. It's an important thing to learn to do."

"What's a trousseau?"

"It's all of the special things that you bring with you to spend time with your husband when you marry."

"Like your bracelet?" Fiona said hopefully, perking up as Wanda took her hand and escorted her out of the suite.

"You have your heart set on me taking that bracelet? Really, Fiona?"

"It's sparkly," Fiona pointed out. "Bucky will like it!"

Wanda chuckled. "That sounds like it's important, then. All right, sweetheart. I'll bring it." _Fair enough._ Her sister-in-law had a point. Despite the hasty nature of their betrothal - Wanda could hardly call it such - she _did_ want to see Bucky happy, or at the very least, not see that lingering sadness in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. He was charming and polite, and his smile could break hearts, but it didn't reach his lovely eyes. That stung.

Wanda pondered this as she escorted Fiona to the garden, to the source of his sadness.

She found the master gardener hard at work, planting some hardy bulbs in neat rows. The sun beat down on his fair skin, and Wanda noticed the beginnings of a sunburn along the tops of his ears, forehead and nose, along with some new freckles. The sunlight brought glints of gold in his wheat blond hair. He looked sweet and fresh, grass stains and all, and Wanda felt a hint of jealousy. Here knelt the apple of her husband's eye, digging in the dirt.

He spared them a smile when he noticed Fiona with Wanda, and the younger princess ran toward him, automatically tugging on his sleeve for him to rise. "We need you to help us, Steve! I want some flowers to bring to Papa."

"Fiona, remember your good manners. Greet him first." Fee released him and stepped back.

"Good afternoon, Steven." Steve chuckled as he stood.

"How may I assist you, Princess Fiona?" 

Fee giggled at being addressed as such. Steve was her favorite playmate, once. "Can you find us some nice flowers to pick?"

"They're all very nice."

"We want the prettiest ones. Papa still doesn't feel well." Wanda met Steve's concerned look with a gentle smile.

"Just something to brighten his suite," Wanda clarified. Steve nodded in understanding.   
The unspoken sentiment was that Fiona would have an excuse to visit her father. She'd had precious little contact with him due to the physician's claim that she was too young to understand what was happening (a claim that was patently false) and that she would disturb his rest and treatment. Winifred tried to be sympathetic to her daughter's needs, but her patience was on short supply as she fretted over her husband's ailment. She sat vigil at George's bedside, taking her meals in his suite instead of the formal dining room. Each day, he looked more depleted, thinner, the paleness of his skin revealing more bruises that seemed to bloom everywhere. He held down scarce nourishment at best, only managing the occasional sip of broth. The normally shrewd eyes were glazed and rheumy, and conversations with him were short. The bed clothes and pillows seemed to swallow him up.

George's advisors visited him each day by mid-afternoon, after Dr. Strange's exam, and they filled several scrolls to add to the royal records detailing George's wishes and who he would bequeath property to favor to upon his passing. Codicils were added to Bucky's marriage contract with haste.  
Steve remembered tense days and sleepless nights of his own father fretting by Sarah’s bedside, how lost he felt, wishing he didn’t understand what was happening. Didn’t know how hollow and broken he would feel after she took her last breath. His heart wept for Fiona, indeed, for all of the Barnes siblings and the Queen. George was a just king and a kind, loving man. His family would suffer so much once he left them.

Sarah’s wasted, wan visage occupied his mind as he stared down at Fiona, who looked so hopeful, as though her eyes were telling him, _Give me something to make Papa better._ He offered her a gentle smile in return. “Let us find some nice ones for his Majesty, then. Come with me.” He ushered them toward the east end of the garden, rows of annuals creating a riot of color. Steve found Fiona a basket, and she began to fill it with daisies, asters, and chrysanthemums at his urging, as well as some yellow poppies for their cheerful brightness. Steve let the two of them peruse those beds while he went to the rose patch with his shears. He carefully snipped about a half dozen white blooms and began to strip them of their thorns. Fee’s eyes shone with delight, and she gave him a genuine smile that nearly broke his heart.

“I love them, Steve!”

“They’re lovely,” Wanda agreed. “Do you think we have enough, Fiona?”

“Just a few more from over here.” The bouquet was growing by leaps and bounds. Wanda wondered if they had a large enough urn to hold all the flowers that Fiona had her eye on. They stayed outside long enough to enjoy the sunshine and low breeze, something Fiona longed for when she wasn’t shut in the library with her governess and tutors. She took more of her lessons alone, now that Willie was spending so much of his time out in the training yard. Becca spent more of her time with Winifred and less playing with Fee and her dolls; Winifred kept Becca on a short tether, filling her time with elocution lessons and learning to comport herself as a lady. It was boring and absolutely _dreadful_.

 

They eventually made it back into the house with a large arrangement that Natasha helped them place in a fat copper vase. Steve carried it inside for them, trailing after Fee, being mindful of the various rugs and runners that might trip him.

Wanda knocked on the chamber door, exchanging a smile with Fiona, who was practically bouncing with anticipation. 

“Enter,” Winifred called out.

“Good day, Mother,” Wanda greeted. Winifred gave her a wan smile, and her eyes were deeply smudged. She held open her arms, and Wanda gave her a dutiful hug, followed by Fee, who she indulged with a heartier embrace.

“What have you two been up to?” 

“We brought Papa some flowers to make him feel better,” Fiona told her, but her father was sleeping fitfully, barely stirring with their entry.

“He will love them, dear. But let’s let him finish his nap for the moment. I will come fetch you once Papa is up for a visit.” She watched Steve set down the large vase in easy sight of the bed. “You selected some lovely flowers, sweetheart.”

“Steve helped with the roses. He took care of the prickly parts.”

“Ah. Excellent!” Steve gave Winifred a nod of accord.

“Would you care for anything before I go, your Majesty?” he inquired.

“Perhaps just take down the teapot. Have Cook send up a fresh pot and tell her to prepare more broth.”

“Nothing more substantial?”

“No. Not now.” Her voice sounded defeated. “The broth seems to be all he can tolerate, as of late.”

“Understood, your Majesty.” Steve gathered up the tea tray, empty pot and used cups and took them out. He tried to give Fiona an encouraging smile, but she was already pouting, on the verge of crying, her effort at visiting her papa squelched. Wanda already stood by, Fee gathered close, and that comforted him, somehow. Her pale blue eyes shone with sympathy, reflecting his own.

*

“Aren’t you supposed to be packing?” Willie watched Bucky from his perch on a stool while Bucky hit one of the practice dummies with the wooden sword. He’d been at it long enough to have sweat through his tunic, and tendrils of hair worked their way loose from his clubbed hair, clinging damply to his neck.

“That’s why I have Phillip,” Bucky pointed out as he hit the dummy again.

“We could go shoot, instead,” Willie suggested. 

“You don’t need me to hold your hand, Willie,” Bucky told him. He longed to be alone with his thoughts, but his brother wouldn’t take the hint. He didn’t have the heart to tell him outright.

“Just thought you might want to loose a few arrows,” Willie told him. “Clint and Natasha are training Steve again.”

Bucky caught himself mid-stroke, sword hesitating just shy of the dummy as his gray eyes pinned his brother. Willie shrugged. “He’s getting a little better,” he told Bucky.

“Well,” Bucky decided, “we don’t want him showing you up, then, if he’s getting in all this practice. If you’re going to succeed me, brother, then you have to be a sharper shot than your gardener.”

Because why would Bucky let an opportunity to watch Steve slide?

Willie was right. Bucky _was_ supposed to be packing up for his honeymoon and supervising the preparations, choosing a small contingent of his guards to accompany them and ensuring his coachmen and footmen were aware of his wishes. He was torn between the need for a reprieve from the fuss and tension of the past few days and his responsibility to his parents, namely to be there for his mother while she held her vigil over George. But Winifred was adamant that he take a proper honeymoon.

“It may make things… go more smoothly,” she suggested. 

Smoothly.

He knew the servants were watching him and Wanda furtively, speculating. The favorite topic on the kingdom’s tongue was “how soon would there be an heir?” When would Princess Wanda be with child? The palace laundress let slip that the royal couple’s bed sheets were as yet pristine, no signs of a maidenhead having been breached.

Bucky didn’t rush to squelch those rumors. To refute them would be a lie. Bucky could barely recall the events of their wedding night. He awoke to sunlight streaming in through the sheers the next morning, alone in their enormous bed. Wanda had already risen and broken her fast with her brother and uncle. He felt groggy but rested, yet he also felt bereft. He remembered kissing her, but…

Bucky was attracted to his wife. She was beautiful, intelligent and sensitive to his moods, and she made him laugh with impropriety and little restraint. They took walks in the garden and rides down the paths through the surrounding glade when they weren’t tied down at court or ensconced in George’s suite (so, infrequently). Winifred insisted that he spend more time with her that wasn’t fraught with foreboding and taken up with thoughts of his father’s sickness. A dark cloud drifted over him. Scant light broke through, Wanda’s smile was its messenger. When his thoughts would drift, his face would fall into pensive lines. Wanda’s hand would find its way into his during those times, taking the edge off of Bucky’s loneliness.

His sorrow owned another cause. He missed Steve. So much.

*

He watched him furtively, through windows and from his balcony and from the edge of the practice yard when he wasn’t engaged in wrestling or fencing practice. He hazarded a glance at him from the corridor, on those occasions when he saw him eating his meals quickly, tucked in kitchen at the servants’ table. Bucky remembered nights where he would find Steve up late at night, making himself a cup of tea from Sarah’s special herbs. He would offer Bucky a cup, smiling shyly and asking him if he couldn’t sleep, either. Phillip never approved of Bucky taking it upon himself to get his own cup, but those wee hours were meant for time with Steve, talking softly with him by the hearth, watching the light flicker over his blond hair, turning it a burnished gold.

He missed his deep voice and his hearty laugh. Bucky missed his smile and the thoughtful way he would listen and how responsive he was to his touch, always leaning into it when he would wrap an arm around him or just grip his shoulder when he gave him praise. He longed for his humor and opinions on the affairs of court. They would talk about books and philosophy, because Steve was well-read, articulate and bright from years of eavesdropping on Bucky’s lessons whenever Joseph let him roam the library between chores. During their boyhood, Bucky would also find Steve in the shed and fill his ear with what he’d learned. Steve, in turn, would teach Bucky about the flowers and their meanings, passed down to him from Sarah. 

“Red roses are for passionate love,” Steve told him once, when they were old enough for their voices to crack.

Bucky felt his face heat up. “Then I shouldn’t pick those unless I’m serious about courtship, I guess.”

“Not if you don’t want to give someone the wrong idea,” Steve told him, but Bucky noticed his friend’s ears were pink, too, and a smirk toyed with the corners of his mouth. “Who are you planning on courting, Bucky?”

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.” Bucky plucked a white rose from the branch, instead, and began to strip its thorns. “Whomever my mother and father choose for me, I suppose.”

“That makes sense,” Steve agreed, and his smile vanished. “Yellow flowers are bright, but don’t rush to pick those for your lady, either. Might give her the idea that you don’t like her much. Especially chrysanthemums or poppies.”

Bucky huffed, and his smile returned. “Why?”

“Chrysanthemums mean neglect, or sorrow. Poppies signify oblivion.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky told him, tearing a leaf from the branch and throwing it at Steve.

“Never refute my mother’s wisdom, your Highness,” Steve countered. “Or you could end up with an angry bride on your hands.” Then Steve’s smile faltered, and he went back to his work, thinning the seedlings he had started in small trays. 

*

Packing his trunks could wait.

Willie had to stretch his legs to keep up with his brother’s longer stride as they made their way to the archery range. He watched Nat drawing back her bow, dressed in her practice leathers away from the eyes of the queen and her ladies in waiting. She released it and the arrow hit the bullseye with a loud _thwack_.

“Show-off,” Bucky heard Clint murmur as he adjusted his arm guard and nocked his arrow. And Steve watched, rapt, as the king’s most skilled archer took aim. “Trying to make me look bad again in front of Steve.”

“You can do that all by yourself, Barton,” she deadpanned. 

“No. You’ve helped, on occasion, Romanoff. With untold amounts of glee. I don’t know why I call you friend.”

“No one else knows you so well.”

Clint “hmmphed” and shrugged before he pulled back the arrow until the string was taut, and Steve heard it vibrate and twang as Clint parted his fingers, letting it fly. It whistled through the air, landing true – where it split Natasha’s arrow straight down the middle. Clint grinned at Natasha, who gave him a dark look. 

“Who’s gleeful now?” Steve wondered aloud.

“Your turn, Master Gardener,” Natasha said. That shut Steve up. That, and seeing Bucky and Willie arrive, both dressed for practice. Bucky’s skin was flushed and damp with sweat, and he radiated good health. His tunic was loose and gaping at the neck where it came untied, and Steve tried to ignore the flesh it revealed, the way it clung wherever his sweat pooled. 

“Remember what I told you. Line up your arm with your target, and don’t take your eye off of it. Keep that arm nice and straight.” Clint stood behind Steve and corrected his form and position. “That’s it. Nice and strong. Let it go.” Steve released it, and he felt the snap of fire against his inner elbow as the bowstring caught him beneath the edge of his arm guard. But his arrow flew true despite the mishap, and he managed to hit the outer border of the black ring.

“Bravo!” Nat cried while Steve was still wringing his hand, arm smarting with the sting. “You’ve improved. Now you’ll actually be able to hit the side of a barn, Rogers!”

“Because I need to be able to protect the castle from an invading barn. It’s standing there so menacingly, conspiring against us with the horses in the stable,” Steve said. “That’s high praise, Miss Romanoff.”

“It is for _her_ ,” Clint reminded him. 

"It is," Nat agreed.

“Just accept the compliment, Steve,” Bucky chimed in. Willie chuckled off to the side, laughing harder when Steve caught his eye and gave him a wounded look.

"I thought you were my master archer and huntsman," Bucky told Clint.

Clint looked affronted. "Begging your pardon, sire? Have I failed you in some way?"

"Nay, Mr. Barton," Bucky replied, maintaining his severe expression, but Steve noticed a twinkle in his eye. "You've failed my master gardener."

"How so, sire?"

"You've taught him horrible form and stance." Natasha smirked and clouted Clint in the arm. Steve rolled his eyes, forgoing all decorum.

"I certainly have not!" Clint's reply fell just short of a sputter. "And he actually hit the target, this time!"

"That he did," Nat chimed in. "Barely. But it will do."

"It will _not_ do. What if I need my gardener at the ready along with my army one day, to help defend my kingdom?" 

"I would give my life for your kingdom, your Highness," Steve told him, and Bucky felt his cheeks heat up at the conviction in his voice. Neither Nat, nor Clint voiced the thought that Steve, the humble gardener, with his less robust physique and dubious fighting skills, would likely never have to defend his kingdom. But they admired Steve's determination to learn those skills and improve himself.

"I won't hasten your sacrifice by allowing you to maintain such sloppy form, Steven," Bucky assured him. Willie bit his lip behind them as he selected some arrows from a nearby quiver. Bucky stood alongside Steve, close enough for Steve to pick up the scent of his sweat, and to his consternation, the familiar, welcome smell of his skin and hair. It was like sunshine. Steve realized that his heart was in his eyes, and he averted them, then felt heat licking up over his skin when Bucky touched him, gripping his shoulders and realigning his arms, fixing his grip on the bow, giving his ankle a little kick to get him to widen his stance. “Better. Stronger. Line up your shot.” That was Bucky’s warm breath misting over Steve’s nape, and he felt himself harden in response.

_Blast it, Bucky._

“All right,” he said unsteadily, mouth dry. Clint and Nat quietly exchanged a look, then watched as Steve took his next shot, once Bucky backed away. Steve’s fingers shivered for a moment before he released the nock. His heart hammered with the knowledge that _Bucky is here, and he’s watching and he’s touching me he shouldn’t be touching me someonemightseedamnitandblastitall_ And those thousand voices inside him chanting that he couldn’t disappoint Bucky made his breath catch, eyes snapping shut against the likely miss, not wanting to see his arrow sail over the target again, or barely nick the edge…

“Shit,” Clint hissed, then clapped his hand over his mouth. Natasha’s eyes were wide.

“Steve Rogers! You shot a bullseye!” she told him, reaching out and clouting him for good measure. 

“Ow… oh. Will you look at that?”

“Well done, Master Gardener,” Willie told him, grinning. Bucky gave his brother a small shove. The arrow jutted proudly from the center of the target, and Steve couldn’t stop smiling.

It made Bucky ache to see that smile.

“Go on, then,” he said to Willie. “It’s your turn.”

And Bucky and Steve restored their boundaries, tamping down the flame burning between them. They continued to shoot until the sun sank into the clouds.

Phillip found Bucky eventually, his expression chiding but patient. “Highness, I have taken the liberty of packing your trunks. Would you like to inspect my selections?”

“I’m certain they will be fine, Phillip.”

“I would hate to leave out any of the essentials, or anything that would help you make the best of your retreat with Her Highness.”

Bucky grinned as he sat on his bed and began to shuck his boots, until Phillip stopped him and resumed the task for him. “I’m sure we will make the best of our honeymoon no matter how we pack for it. That _is_ the nature of honeymoons, after all.”

Phillip’s eyes smiled back at him. “Very well then, sire.” He set the boots aside to clean off the soles and undressed Bucky for his bath. Bucky settled back into the hot, shallow water and let Phillip sponge him down. The water grew gray quickly from the dirt and sweat sluicing from his skin with each stroke of the bathing cloth.

“You’ve acquired a lot of dust, Majesty.”

“It’s dry outside. The soil is hard, like clay out in the practice field and on the archery range.”

“’Archery? You were shooting today?”

“With Willie,” Bucky explained. “We shared the range with Natasha, Barton and Steven.”

Phillip paused in scrubbing. “Steven? Rogers?” he added, just to ensure that he had heard the prince correctly. “He was shooting?”

“Somehow,” Bucky told him, chuckling. “Trying, at any rate.”

“Pardon my asking, but… whatever for?”

“It’s just something he wanted to do. I’ve learned it’s better not to try to sway him away from something he feels determined to do,” Bucky pointed out.

“Fair enough, sire.”

*

The next morning was overcast and cool; once the sun rose, it winked in and out of the clouds while a breeze kicked up, making tree branches rattle overhead. Bucky and Wanda’s grooms and ladies-in-waiting moved about their suite, finishing the preparations for their trip.

“A cottage by the shore. How romantic,” one of her ladies, Janet, gushed with a bright smile. “You couldn’t have picked a better place for a honeymoon, milady. You can finally have some time with your husband.”

“Or less time at court or in a drawing room.” Wanda was already tired of maintaining demure posture and composure over canapes and cognac during these encounters. Pietro was still staying in the castle, even though her uncle Edgar had already departed. She didn’t mention that spending time in George’s dark rooms with the curtains drawn, offering support to Winifred, was beginning to drain her spirit. She absorbed the tension and despair that Winifred radiated during this vigil as she accepted the lonely and uncertain future without her husband. It was frustrating, too, to see such sadness weighing on Bucky, shadowing his eyes. For Wanda, the death of her parents wasn’t heralded by illness and grim preparations; it had been a sharp, bitter slap of cold reality. Her childhood had been ground and crushed beneath the carriage’s wheels. Pietro was all she had left.

"What's in this small chest, Majesty?”

“My herbs and potions,” Wanda explained. “Be careful with them.”

“Aye, milady.”

Janet wisely refrained from asking their purpose. Something curt in Wanda’s tone squelched her curiosity.

Phillip and the footmen loaded the trunks into the carriage. Fiona, William and Rebecca stood out in the courtyard, huddled together against the chill winds. They waited for their brother to emerge from the castle so they could give him proper goodbyes. 

“I wish I could go to the shore, too,” Fiona complained.

“We can’t go with Bucky this time,” Becca reminded her. “The trip’s just for him and for Wanda.”

“I want to see the waves,” Fee added, as though piling on a few more reasons why she should be allowed to go would yield a better result.

“They will still be there whenever we go next. They always come back, Fee.” Willie reached down and tweaked her nose, and she gave him a playful shove. He took umbrage by locking her in his embrace and tickling her mercilessly, not caring about decorum until Becca hissed at them to stop. Bucky and Wanda arrived, dressed comfortably and simply for travel, and to Fee’s delight, Wanda wore the sparkling bracelet.

“I took your suggestion, sweetheart,” she told her when Fee gave her a crushing hug.

“I told you,” she said smugly.

“I trust your judgment.”

“Look after Mother,” Bucky told Willie as he gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “And the girls. We won’t be gone too long.”

“I’ll take care of them all,” Willie promised, and he didn’t make any attempts to ward off his brother’s hug or deem himself too old for it.

“Steve will be here, too,” Bucky reminded him. “If you can’t sleep, ask him to make you one of his teas.”

“Where is Steve?” Becca wondered.

Before anyone could answer, the man in question came tearing down the front corridor and out into the courtyard. He was red-faced and panting, short tendrils of hair flying from his exertions, and Bucky didn’t like the haggard sound of his breathing. He moved forward automatically, gently gripping his upper arm to steady him. “What’s the hurry?”

“Had…to… catch you… Highness,” he huffed, struggling to find his next breath and licking his dry lips. “Here.” He handed him a small vial made from green glass and stoppered with a tiny cork. Bucky’s fingers grazed his when he took it. Steve tried to ignore the little current that ran through him with that contact.

“What is it?”

“A… honeymoon… gift,” Steve assured him. “Add it to your bathwater. Mother swore by it. She made batches of it for newlyweds. It’s soothing, and invigorating.”

Bucky failed to suppress his smile. Mischief danced in his blue eyes. “Invigorating?”

“Just a few herbs and flowers, boiled down and infused with oils, Highness.”

“It’s nice to see that her wisdom and gifts lived on,” Wanda mentioned. “Such a generous gift, Steve.” Steve was glad that he was already flushed, or he would have colored from her words.

“Er… may it…assist you. And yield a favorable, um, result.”

Bucky bit his lip against a chuckle. Willie raised his brows. Becca murmured to Fiona that “you’ll understand when you’re older” when she asked what the result was supposed to be and why her brother needed help. He clapped Steve on the shoulder, giving him a little shake.

“Thank you for offering us such thoughtful… assistance,” Bucky murmured.

_Now_ Steve was blushing in earnest. He ducked his head, rubbing his nape. Bucky took mercy on him, releasing him. He went to hug his siblings, kissing his sisters and ruffling Willie’s hair. He no longer had to reach down to do it; his brother was gaining inches on him all the time, of late. 

“The coach is ready, sire,” Thor assured him. The footmen took down the small, tasseled stool and set it in front of the door, and they helped Wanda up into it first, being mindful of her long skirts.

“I wasn’t expecting such a large entourage,” Bucky remarked, nodding at the contingent of knights mounted behind them, wearing his kingdom’s colors, and a few that wore Wyndham’s. He nodded to them, and they bowed in fealty.

“Lord Wyndham wants to ensure his niece’s safety, as well as yours, Majesty,” Thor explained. Then he smiled proudly. “My brother rides among them, eager to serve you, sire. The Odinsons serve the crown with pride.” A tall, saturnine young man with dark hair clubbed back at his nape and dark green eyes saluted Bucky when he heard his brother’s words. Bucky nodded back.

“I would expect no less from an Odinson,” Bucky assured him, and Thor’s smile increased its wattage. “On we ride. To the cottage. Make haste, and we may reach it before sunset.”

“It will be my pleasure, Majesty.”

Bucky climbed up into the carriage, and Wanda’s slender, cool hand crept into his, squeezing his fingers. 

“Perhaps that lovely smile will find its way back onto your face once more,” Wanda mused. 

“Mayhap it will have reason to return,” Bucky offered, but his face softened, and he gave her a brief, sweet kiss. They rode like that, watching the scenery drift by through the window, fingers interlaced. They dozed off, huddled together, lulled by the gentle rock of the carriage and the low clopping of hooves against the gravelly road.

*

Bringing up the rear of the traveling party, Loki drew his mount to a halt.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think she’s taken a pebble under her shoe. Go on. I’ll catch up in a moment,” he replied.

“Make haste,” the guard suggested. “Your brother promised we would beat the sunset to the shore. Don’t make a liar out of him or slowpokes out of the rest of us.”

Loki snorted as he dismounted, making a show of pulling his horse off to the side of the path.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he called after them. The other guards took their cue to pick the pace back up, and Loki waited until they were several meters away before he tethered his horse. Anticipation made his stomach knot.

“They won’t believe it’s taking me this long to free a stone from my horse’s shoe,” Loki growled, loudly enough for Brock to emerge from the brush, from behind the marked tree. The swarthy knight was in full armor, with the face guard of his helm pulled up to reveal expectant dark eyes.

“How many archers do you have at the ready?”

“Four.”

“You’re confident in their aim?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? They’re trained properly in Wyndham’s kingdom,” Loki huffed. “Not like you lazy lot. And they know their duty to the crown.”

“It might be wise to watch your tongue, Odinson.”

“Surely you’ll forgive me, sir knight,” Loki told him smoothly. “I’m merely expressing pride in my own kingdom’s army.”

_Bastard._ Brock, too, held his tongue. For the moment. But, he made no effort to quell the disdain darkening his expression.

“As you were. You should really take better care of your mare.”

 

*

Bucky couldn’t identify the sound that first woke him from his nap, but it was definitely the shriek of one of his guard’s stallions as its rider was taken down that brought him fully from his stupor. “What? Whuhwuzzat? What the blazes-“

“BUCKY! Get down!” Wanda cried, and she tugged him away from the window once she jerked the small curtain closed, showing surprising strength. Bucky bit his tongue and grunted as he hit the floor of the carriage, feeling his wife’s slight – but full – weight topple against him, and he wrested her under him, shielding her with his bulk instead. Bucky curled his body around hers as they heard the hissing thunks of arrows hit the outer shell of their transport, now the only thing protecting them.

“Blast!” he hissed. 

“Let me up,” Wanda insisted, her pale blue eyes wild with a mixture of fear and determination. “I need to get out and stop this!”

“You can’t! I won’t let you, Wanda! Not while I draw breath!”

“I can stop this!”

“How? By giving them an easier target? Have you gone daft, wife?”

“STAY DOWN, SIRE!” Thor bellowed from outside. 

“Listen to Thor,” James huffed, and he held onto her more tightly, tucking her against his chest, his large palm splayed over the crown of her head. Wanda shivered every time they head an arrow hit the side, and another arrow whistled inside, landing on the seat cushion, still warm from their bodies. Cold fear racked Bucky, making his heart pound.

This wasn't how he planned to spend their honeymoon. 

“RUN THEM DOWN!” Thor cried out, and he heard the flurry of rushing hoofbeats. “You three, flank the carriage!” That was the last time they heard his voice clearly before Thor slammed the outer shutter over the window. Bucky and Wanda flinched and stifled their cries at the sounds of clashing swords, of the sickening sound of flesh being torn by an arrow tip, followed by choking gurgles. The horses hitched to the carriage flailed and bucked, whinnying up a cacophony of terror. Bucky would take those horrible sounds into his dreams…

…provided that he made it back to the castle alive.

Wanda clung to him. “Let me out,” she insisted.

“No, Wanda! I won’t let you risk yourself, what you’re asking me is-“

“I can turn them away,” she told him.

“Wanda. _No._ ” His eyes were hard chips, his lips a mulish, thin line. “Never in my family’s history has a Barnes male let his wife walk out into a hail of arrows. I won’t be the first.”

“My parents died in a carriage, Bucky,” Wanda reminded him tersely, and he saw a glimmer of tears threatening to spill over her dark lashes. “I cannot- I _can’t_ …”

Realization flashed in his eyes. Bucky kissed her quickly. “I still won’t risk you, sweetheart. You ask me too much, if you think I will entertain such a thought.” He levered himself up, taking away the warm, smothering shelter of his body. “Stay,” he ordered as he slid over to the window, reaching through the curtain to release the latch on the shutter, lifting it enough to peer out. He saw his knights fighting with a handful of soldiers he did not recognize, their armor not from his kingdom’s blacksmith. He couldn’t make out the seal on their shields from that far away, they were several meters away, partly obscured by the brush.

Thor relieved one soldier’s neck of its burden, and Bucky gulped back nausea as he watched the head, helm and all, go rolling down the bath, eyes still wide with shock. As handy as Thor was with a sword, he was even more skilled with a flail and battleaxe. He was easily the largest knight in George’s court, and he relished nothing more than close combat, his brilliant grin often the last thing his opponents saw before death claimed them.

But Bucky’s one glance told him that his guards were handling the situation and turning the tide, driving off his attackers. 

From the clearing, a sharp-eyed archer saw the opportunity afforded by the gap in the shutter, leering with satisfaction. “Lean that pretty head a little to the left, Majesty,” he coaxed in silky tones as he drew back his nocked arrow, aiming for the first glimpse of Bucky’s fine profile and dark hair. The arrow whistled through the air…

…and Wanda’s eyes glowed red where she lay crouched on the floor of the carriage, and her hand wove itself in an arcane gesture, fingers lithe and graceful and flowing with scarlet energy while her husband’s back was turned. Bucky only saw the arrow headed for him, and his breath caught in his chest. His life flashed before him, a rapid-fire tumble of memories, overlaid with a thousand voices chanting _SteveSteveSteveSteveSteveLordwhatwillhappentohimifIdon’tcomehome_.

One twitch of Wanda’s finger flicked the arrow away, deflecting it back to its sender, and Bucky retched at the sight of the arrow piercing the archer’s throat. He toppled from his horse, blood spurting and bubbling from the gaping hole in his jugular.

“Come away from the window!” Wanda warned as she now hovered over _him_ protectively, withdrawing her handkerchief from her decollete. Bucky breathed in its scent and held it over his mouth. He stared up at her with watery eyes.

“The arrow-“

“It could have taken you from me,” she reminded him.

“I saw it fly back-“

“Nay, Bucky. Thor thrust out his shield, and one of your own knights took that archer’s life,” Wanda told him, and Bucky, still locked in terror and disbelief, shook his head. He clutched at her, hands gripping her arms.

“Wanda, no! That wasn’t what-“

“Settle down, darling,” Wanda advised, making a low shushing sound. Her fingertips grazed his lips and she kissed his brow. “It’s all right.”

“I saw-“

“You shouldn’t have opened the shutter. Foolish man, wanting to protect me and nearly losing your head in the process.” And her eyes softly glowed, her voice a silky, soothing lull to his senses. “I won’t forgive you if you leave me so quickly after exchanging vows, husband.”

The sounds outside the carriage, his knights’ calls to round up the bodies of the archers they’d dispatched, sounded far away to Bucky once his eyes drifted shut.


	9. Trousseau Full of Arrows, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Wanda’s abrupt return to the castle yields mixed reactions, and grim news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t hate me. I had precious little time to write this weekend, a houseful of in-laws to feed (my oldest ran off with half of a large peach cobbler that was supposed to feed about nine additional people), laundry to put away, a bathroom, kitchen and living room to clean, and a rosary to go to tomorrow for one of my aunts-in-law who died last week. My muse prodded me, but she has no concept of time management.

The sentries flanking the gates surrounding the castle drew their weapons in alarm and sounded a claxon as they saw the royal carriage returning, its hull displaying damage from the arrows, spatters of blood marring its polish. They noticed that two of the knights who had accompanied the prince and princess down the road were absent, and Thor looked grim. On closer inspection, the sentries saw blood flecking Thor’s face, beard and chest plate. 

“Summon the healer!” he bellowed. “His Majesty needs attention, immediately!”

“What the hell happened?” Tony Stark, the royal blacksmith, noticed the damaged carriage, easily recognizing the scars and holes from the attackers’ arrows. At the sight of the procession heading back in through the gate, George’s servants and guards drifted out for a glimpse, then began summoning Bucky’s grooms and Wanda’s ladies, Dr. Strange, and anyone else who could assist them in getting the royal couple inside.

“We were ambushed. It was a close call. We lost two of our own. They had archers. These were their colors.” Thor handed him the abandoned shield with the coat of arms. A green seal highlighted by a yellow scroll behind a crouching lion.

“Ross’ kingdom flies that seal on their flag,” Tony muttered. “What treachery is this?”

“That’s for his Majesty to find out, as well as what action we take next, Mr. Stark.” Tony took the shield with him back toward the field. He nodded to Natasha and Clint, who hurried breathlessly toward the courtyard.

“There was an attack.”

“The prince and princess? How are they?” Natasha demanded.

“Ambush. It doesn’t look good.”

Bucky’s footmen rushed to get the two of them out of the carriage. Wanda looked tearful and pale, but she was otherwise unharmed. “Please, take my husband inside. He collapsed.”

“What?” Natasha was taken aback. “But… he wasn’t harmed? He wasn’t shot?”

“No,” Wanda assured her. “He is just in shock. Please, help him inside. Inform the King and Queen that we have returned much sooner than planned.” Wanda’s ladies descended on her, at once solicitous and fretful, examining her quickly for injury and offering calming tonics once they could bring her inside.

“No,” she told them. “I need to see to my husband, first.”

Phillip stood by, waiting for the footmen to bring Bucky from the carriage. He was alarmed to see that he was barely conscious. “Majesty,” he said, in choked tones. 

“I will bring him in,” Thor told him curtly, and he didn’t argue with the enormous, burly knight, who took Bucky and carried him up the stairs like a babe in arms. 

“He’s not injured?” Phillip cried after him, following him inside. 

“Just shocked. Send the good doctor to meet us in his Majesty’s suite.”

“I will inform the King and Queen.” Phillip looked pale, still processing what happened. “Thor?”

“Aye, Mr. Coulson?”

“Once Prince Bucky is attended… he will need to go to his mother and father’s suite. They will want to witness with their own eyes that he is all right.” Thor gave him a grim nod, and they continued toward the suite.

Thor laid Bucky gently down on the bed and drew the curtains shut. Phillip shooed him out, distressed over the blood that managed to find its way onto Bucky’s fine clothing from where Thor carried him against himself. Phillip attended him, stripping off his boots and jacket, opening up his shirt collar. By the time he unfastened all of the buttons, Stephen Strange entered the suite without knocking. His expression was bland. “I am here to examine him.”

“He appears intact, Doctor. But he isn’t rousing very quickly-“

“I said, I will examine him. I will determine if anything is wrong. I don’t pretend to be his groom, Phillip. I don’t expect you to fulfill a doctor’s role to his Majesty, do I?”

His tone was haughty, taking Phillip aback. Chafed, Phillip nodded. “I will let you see to him, then. I won’t be far away.”

“Suit yourself.”

*

“What’s all the commotion outside?” George demanded hoarsely. Winifred rushed to the window, parting the curtains so she could see the source of the raised voices and clatter.

“What? George… Bucky’s carriage. It’s returned. Something… something’s wrong!”

“He’s returned?” George wondered, but any further questions were stalled by a ragged, wet cough.

“I will return shortly, darling,” Winifred promised. One of her ladies accompanied her out the door, falling in behind Winifred’s swirling skirts. She proceeded toward the stairs, until she saw Phillip in the corridor, looking upset. “Mr. Coulson, where is my son? Why has he returned home?”

“Because, milady, and forgive me for being so abrupt, but Prince Bucky and Princess Wanda’s carriage was attacked. Her Majesty is unharmed, but Stephen is examining the prince right now. He seems dazed, and he is stubborn to rouse.”

The color drained from Winifred’s face.” I need to see him!”

“Majesty, it might be prudent to-“

“Take me to _my son_! NOW.” There were hectic spots of color in her cheeks, and the Queen’s normally calm eyes were wild. Her grip on Phillip’s arm was almost bruising. “Do not think to keep me from him.”

“Never.” Phillip guided her into Bucky’s chamber, not bothering to knock, fearing that Bucky would be there in a state of undress, any injuries untended, bleeding… he feared for the Queen’s distress, when she was under so much strain from weeks of looking after her ailing husband. She didn’t need this new shock.

But to Phillip’s relief, Bucky was resting peacefully, eyes drowsy by relieved when his mother swept inside, automatically kneeling by the bed.

“Darling,” Winifred choked. “You’re whole. You’re here. What happened?”

“I’m all right, Mother. Just… so tired. And a bit shaken.”

She took his hand in both of hers, and he noticed that they were shaking and cold. Winifred kissed him and smoothed back his hair, now in disarray and pulled loose from its earlier ponytail. “You’re unharmed?”

“Not so much as a scratch. Thank your daughter-in-law for her quick thinking,” Bucky assured her, but he was still puzzling out the events of the afternoon, himself, in that regard. Why had Wanda insisted that she go outside, while the archers attacked? Fear darkened her eyes, certainly, and tightened her grip on him, but she didn’t cower from it. How did she think she could have turned the tide of the attack by showing herself, leaving herself directly within their sights? Bucky shivered at the vision that rose up in his mind of his new wife, vulnerable and out in the open.

Before Bucky could ponder it any further, he heard a brisk knock at the chamber door. Stephen sighed heavily, throwing up his hands. “Majesty, may I finish examining you, yet?”

“Hush, foolish man,” Winifred snapped. “You would deny me the chance to see with my own eyes that my son is still with me? I am _his mother_.” Her voice was hard and brooked no nonsense, and Stephen straightened up and stepped back from the bed, thoroughly chastened.

“Forgive me, Majesty.”

“I can prepare his Highness a tonic, it might be calming,” Stephen suggested.

“M’calm. M’tired,” Bucky explained. He still felt disembodied and dizzy, but he was back in his chamber, safe, with his mother staring down at him in concern and pique. There was another knock at the door, this one more insistent, and Bucky told his healer, “Let whoever it is inside, before their hand falls off.”

Stephen’s expression was neutral as he turned to do his prince’s bidding, and he opened the door to an anxious looking gardener, eyes desperate and unsure of what to do with his hands. Stephen had apparently interrupted him from pacing in the hall. “Doctor,” Steve blurted out, “may I… can I, I mean… is he whole? Was Bucky injured?” He bit back further questions when he realized how he’d misspoke, forgetting Bucky’s title.

“His _Highness_ is unharmed. He needs time to recover and rest.”

And Steve’s face was so relieved, every ounce of tension leaving his posture. He exhaled shakily. “Thank God…”

“Perhaps you will give him his privacy-“

“Can I see him? Please? Just for a moment?” Steve licked his lips, hating how anxious he sounded. His stomach was twisted and he felt a vise squeezing his heart. He’d dropped his shears and run as fast as his legs would carry him, not giving a damn about his less than reliable lungs when he heard the calls for assistance. His heart had stuttered at the sight of the carriage, of Thor’s bloody armor and the bodies of the men whom they’d lost. His mind ran through the worst scenarios, Bucky’s name beating like a tattoo in his head. The sight of the arrow holes in the carriage made him sick and dizzy, panic making waves of cold wash over his flesh.

And now, Stephen stood in the doorway, between himself and Bucky, no scrap of empathy to be found in his narrow blue eyes. “I think it’s best that you go,” he told him firmly, making no move to allow Steve to enter the suite.

“But… please, I just want-“

“Steve?”

That was Bucky’s voice, deep, haggard and tired, calling for him. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Highness. May I speak with you?”

“Come inside,” he beckoned, and Steve felt his eyes prick, relief untying all of his knots. The doctor stepped aside to allow Steve entry, and Steve immediately felt guilty when he was Winifred seated on the edge of Bucky’s bed, his hand tucked in hers, face pale and tear-streaked.

“Do you need anything of me, your Highness?” Steve asked, chastened. Bucky was stripped down to his tunic and tucked under the blankets. Steve saw flecks of blood on his shirt and fought the urge to be sick right then. _Bucky!_

“Not at the moment.”

“I have some fine herbs. They may calm your nerves,” Steve suggested, searching for any means of assistance that would allow him more time in Bucky’s presence. He was wan and looked exhausted, but his smile was gentle, and he was safe, and Steve felt overwhelmed.

“I am in charge of his Majesty’s herbs and medicines, should he need them,” Strange told him haughtily. “You aren’t the palace healer.”

“No, that wasn’t… I meant no disrespect,” Steve offered, feeling his face color with frustration. Bucky chuckled.

“There’s no need to fuss over me, Mr. Rogers,” Bucky reassured him. “I’ll be good as new, sooner than you know it.” Bucky squeezed Winifred’s hand. “Does Father know we returned?”

“Yes, darling, I was with him when you… oh. Oh, dear, I still haven’t told him! I’m sorry, James, let me go to him.” She turned to Steve and said “You. Sit. Stay with him and make sure he’s all right. Your work outside can wait.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude, your Highness,” Steve told her, feeling ridiculous now for his hasty visit, but Winifred held up her hand.

“No. Stay. Just… stay. I need to return to my husband. And you, you’re coming with me,” Winifred decided, and she beckoned to Dr. Strange to follow her out. He looked confused and annoyed, but he obeyed, following her out into the corridor and pulling the heavy door shut.

That left Steve standing there, his earlier panic dissipating and relief making him tremble. “Bucky,” he whispered.

“You’re too far away,” Bucky told him as he reached for him, and Steve needed no further urging. He hurried to the bedside and knelt down, taking Bucky’s hand.

“I almost lost you…”

“Don’t. Please.”

Steve’s eyes sparked, and he tore his gaze away from Bucky’s, but he didn’t let go of his hand.

“Apologies, Majesty. I’m… overwrought. And my behavior is out of bounds. I realize that.”

Bucky tightened his grip on Steve’s hand. So much emotion etched itself across Steve’s face.

“I’m here. With you. Don’t apologize. All I could think was that I would never see your face or hear your voice again, Steve. I couldn’t bear that.”

“You have blood on you.”

“It’s not mine.” 

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Good.”

Steve knew that Phillip would probably squawk at him next for performing _his_ duties, but Steve still fetched Bucky a fresh tunic and gathered up a basin of water and a clean rag. He cleansed Bucky’s skin, daubing away the flecks of blood and dirt from his face, neck and hands. His touch was gentle, soothing, the opportunity even more precious for being forbidden. George and Winifred were within their rights to punish Steve for laying hands on the prince so intimately. Sarah’s warning haunted Steve. He ached with the need to touch him, hold him, but Bucky was a married man, now. He wouldn’t break his promise to Wanda to bring their friendship back within its proper boundaries, or to his mother. Steven Rogers was a servant, as low as the dirt he tilled. He had no designs on becoming anything else. It was enough that he was still near Bucky.

“How is Princess Wanda?”

“Not a hair out of place. She’s unharmed,” Bucky assured him, and Steve was just as relieved with that news, but now that he had a chance to compose himself, new questions arose in his mind.

“There were archers? How many?”

“I’m uncertain. I couldn’t see them all through the window, and Thor closed the shutter,” Bucky explained. 

“Where were they from? If they were from your father’s palace, Bucky, this is treason.”

“I know. I haven’t identified them yet, Steve.” And Bucky sounded frustrated, once more thing to burden himself with. His opportunity for a honeymoon was truly dashed, with growing, daunting responsibilities to his throne dumped into his lap. 

Someone was plotting against the crown.

“Your safety is at risk,” Steve told him. 

“I have good men surrounding me, Steve. My knights did as they were trained to do.”

“Those archers were well-trained, Majesty.” Steve’s words sank in. Bucky felt the stupor that had enveloped him since his return to the castle slip away fully. 

“Then, we must flush them out.”

There was another knock on the door, and Steve released Bucky, not wishing to be caught committing an act of impropriety, even though Bucky was tucked into bed, his flesh warm and swabbed clean with his hair flowing loose across the pillows, watching Steve with naked longing and need. Phillip swept inside, and he looked surprised to see Steve attending the prince.

“I’m here to make his Majesty presentable,” Phillip told Steve. He took that as his cue to leave.

“Presentable?”

“Yes, sire. Her Majesty has requested your presence. Your father has taken a turn for the worse.”

*

“He went into shock,” Dr. Strange explained to Winifred. She stood wringing her hands, clutching and twisting a handkerchief that she used to mop at her wet cheeks while her palace healer attended her husband. George was breathing stertorously, chest rattling, eyes glassy.

“The children,” he rasped. “Bring, bring them… to me. Bucky…”

“He… he’s all right, George. You must rest, my love-“

“Bring him! Must…” His coughs racked his body, and he sprayed the sheet with droplets of blood. Winifred cried out, sobbing.

“I will fetch them, beloved.” She disappeared in another flurry of skirts, her footsteps uncharacteristically loud against the floorboards. Her voice could be heard snapping at the princesses’ governess, ordering them to bring them up from the library and to their father’s chamber, at once.

“Let me make you something to ease-“ 

George cut him off with a sharp gesture. “NO! Not… yet…”

The doctor stepped back. “As you wish, Majesty.” His shrewd blue eyes tracked George’s breathing, counting his exhalations. Moments later, Bucky preceded his mother through the door, eyes panicked and half-dressed; he wore trousers and slippers, but his tunic was still unlaced and his hair was in disarray. Thanks to Steve’s efforts, he was clean enough. He paled when he saw George in his pitiful state, his skin so clammy and wan, eyes glittering with illness. He beckoned Bucky to him with a wave of his hand. And there was something so determined in his expression that it made Bucky’s gut twist.

“Son,” he rasped. “You’re… safe.”

“Yes, Father.” Bucky knelt by the bedside and laid his hand on George’s chest. His heartbeat rattled stubbornly, but it was weak. Fear hit him with a jolt. “Hold on, Father. I… I can’t…”

“You can,” George insisted, gentling his scold by reaching out to stroke Bucky’s cheek. “You have a kingdom to rule. You will… need more… knights…” George coughed. “You will need your queen.”

“I’m finding that out. Thank you for bringing us together, Father. I might have resisted it, before, but I understand, now. I do.” Bucky’s eyes pricked, and a shaky breath escaped him. So many things he longed to say. So many moments he wished to reclaim. Bucky remembered childhood days of his father holding him, carrying him up high when he was bigger than life, no gray hairs invading his brown waves yet. George’s eyes roved over Bucky, and they were lucid and warm.

“Look after Willie. Look after your mother and sisters. They need you, James. They are relying on you.”

“I will. With everything I have.” Tears leaked down, burning a path down Bucky’s cheeks. He held onto George’s hand where it rested over his hitching chest, so tightly, as if he could defer the inevitable.

*

Wanda’s ladies-in-waiting hurried about her chamber, urging her to rest and recover her wits, offering her tea and tonics, smelling salts, all of which she waved away. 

“Leave me be,” she ordered. “I must see to my husband.” But before she could follow through on that thought, Winifred and her younger sisters-in-law accosted her. Fiona, in particular, looked overwrought at the sight of her, and she flung her tiny body at Wanda full force, seizing her in a fierce hug.

“I was scared,” Fee told her. 

“Mother said you were attacked. Fiona saw the bodies outside before I could make her look away,” Becca explained, looking upset. “We’re going to see Father, now.”

“Yes, we are,” Wanda agreed, taking in Winifred’s devastated expression. She was thinner, lately, and the dark circles under her eyes deepened. Wanda regretted that they ever left the castle, wondering if the queen knew that George’s death was that imminent. Wanda couldn’t imagine the strain Winifred carried. Wanda didn’t loosen Fiona’s grip, but merely swept her up into her arms, letting her coltish legs dangle as they headed toward George’s rooms with heavy hearts.

George looked relieved as they entered, and Wanda held back her cry of dismay. She automatically set Fiona down, and she hurried with Becca to his other side, letting Bucky continue to hold his hand. “Willie’s on his way,” Becca said numbly. “He had to put away his weapons.”

“He can leave it, for now,” Bucky complained, but George chuckled.

“You and Barton have taught him well. That’s good,” he remarked. 

“Father, please _stay_.” Bucky urged.

“Would that I could grant all of your wishes,” George mused. Stephen watched their visit from the other side of the chamber, preparing a dose of painkilling serum with his pestle and cup. He was a tall, foreboding figure, and Becca held onto Fiona more tightly; neither girl cared for their palace doctor. Fiona claimed he gave her the shivers, despite his benign smiles. Moments later, Willie burst inside without knocking.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… Apologies, Father.”

“There you are,” George encouraged, and Bucky saw in his brother’s mannerisms all of his worry, all of his own pain mirrored in his brother’s eyes and the slump of his shoulders. “There’s my boy. You’ve made me so proud, William. Did you know that?” Willie shook his head, as though the concept was foreign to him. George was scant with praise, not wanting to coddle his sons, and Willie had to work harder for his father’s attention and approval by token of being the younger son. “Then it’s time I told you.”

His voice wavered. “I love you, Papa.” And it had been so long since he had addressed George as such.

“I do, too, Papa,” Becca and Fiona chorused, and Becca’s eyes pricked, making her nose run.

“Bucky… stay safe. You can’t follow me. Not yet. Not while you have a kingdom to… protect…” George heaved ragged breaths, chest recoiling painfully, and this time, Stephen came forward with the drink.

“Highness, this will soothe you. I must insist, now.” Winifred beckoned to her children to come away from the bed. She gathered her girls close and waved Willie over to her side to let the doctor administer the dose, but Bucky remained, staring up at Stephen somewhat balefully.

“You’re certain you’ve done all you can to help him?” His voice was brittle, and Stephen chafed, but he tucked the cup into George’s hand. George’s hand shook, threatening to spill the contents; a few drops of the medicinal-smelling potion splashed over the lip and stained the bedclothes. Stephen caught the cup, helping George to hold it and lifting it toward his lips, but Bucky stopped his progress. His expression was desperate, blue eyes burning into Stephen’s. “Swear to me that you have done all you can, Doctor. Swear on your _life_ that this was your best work.”

“Son,” George chided gently, wheezing. “Don’t. Please.”

“Surely you don’t wish for your father to feel this pain? Let me help him, your Highness.” The doctor’s voice was tranquil and smooth, the same tone when he assured them that he could save their life, but not their hand, foot or rotted teeth.

Bucky released his grip on the doctor’s grip. There were white marks on his skin where Bucky’s fingers dug in. He lifted the cup for George, who swallowed its contents with some difficulty, and gratitude.

“I… will rest, now,” he assured Bucky. His eyes drifted shut, and his rough breathing slowed. Winifred sighed, as though a thousand iron bands released themselves from around her heart. He looked smaller and vulnerable, lost among the thick nest of blankets and pillows.

“Make yourself useful, Doctor,” Bucky told him roughly as he pulled up a stool and took his father’s hand again. The touch grounded him, feeling the faint, weak pulse with the stroke of his thumb. “Summon Nicholas.”

Stephen bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

 

George breathed his last minutes later, surrounded by his children. Even when Wanda told Bucky softly, “He’s gone. He’s not in any pain,” he wouldn’t release George’s hand.


	10. Wounds So Fresh, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's in-laws and their neighboring kingdoms arrive to pay their respects. Steve discovers treachery while struggling against his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is hard to pin down. Pietro kind of got lost in the last chapter or two, so I'm bringing him back. Thanks for your comments. They help.

Black velvet. It felt smooth beneath his palms for the brief moment that the tailor held it against him, checking the drape. The fabric seemed to swallow up all of the light in the room, doing nothing to unknot the hard pit of grief in Bucky's core. The fire crackled in the grate, warming the room but failing to cheer him.

"Your Highness," he asked cautiously, "Would you care for piping? I can inset some around the-"

"It doesn't matter," Bucky told him flatly. "Don't attempt to make me care about this right now." The tailor, chastened, backed quietly out of the room with the bolt of fabric. Bucky found fittings tiresome even on the best of days, but in the wake of George's death, he just wanted to be left alone. The wish was foolish, he knew. His staff hounded him out of necessity.

His coronation followed right on the heels of George's burial. His brow already ached and chafed from the crown's phantom weight. Bucky was to be king in the breadth of a fortnight. The palace staff was denied the luxury of mourning as they made haste with the preparations. A flight of undertakers arrived for the embalming; they had begun constructing George's casket within the weeks before he succumbed, at the palace physician's discretion and the royal advisor's decree. _When did the loss of one's father become so orderly and thoroughly planned?_ Bucky thought bitterly. George's vestments were as exquisitely tailored in death as they were during his tenure on the throne, even though his body was wizened from sickness, no longer robust. The tailors were somber as they went about their work, taking his measurements.

Bucky was tired. His brother and sisters were uncharacteristically quiet, even sweet Fiona. Her bubbly chatter dried up; she spoke only when spoken to and spent her afternoons holed up in the library with their governess, who drew no comfort from this turn in her charge's behavior. She didn't want a manageable princess if it meant teaching a sad one with hollow-looking eyes. Willie and Becca abandoned their usual chess matches in favor of spending their quiet hours in the library, or going for walks in the garden. Winifred allowed it insofar as they did not interrupt the gardeners and groundskeepers from their work.

Bucky knew that this was an unspoken edict against relying on Steve for solace. That included all of the Barnes' siblings. The burden of discretion and restraint weighed heavily on his shoulders, folding Bucky in on himself. Making him curl himself protectively around the old memories, the old feelings.

Bucky would watch him in the garden, harvesting the herbs and draping protective tarps over the tender plants in preparation for the bitter winter months. Steve bundled himself in thick layers against the elements; his rosy cheeks and the chapped tip of his nose protruded from above the edge of his knitted muffler. Sometimes Steve would pause in his labors, resting long enough to knead a sore spot in his neck or flex his cramped fingers, and during those moments, he would feel Bucky's eyes on him. He often caught him and returned his gaze for a moment, no longer than a heartbeat, and he would return to his task quickly, not wanting passerby to notice his source of distraction.

Oh, how he longed to look his fill...

*

Pietro fidgeted as he watched the scenery pass through the carriage window, hating the feelings of confinement. He despised carriage travel enough even in pleasant company. The memories of his palace staff removing his parents from the wreckage loomed ever-present in his consciousness.

How much worse could he deem a journey by carriage in his uncle's company, then, and how many of his fingernails would Pietro have left if he could restrain himself from pulling them out at the root?

Wyndham leaned forward and kicked him sharply, impatience sketched across his aging features. Pietro was jerked from his musings by the unpleasant jarring. "Calm yourself," he hissed. "Stop fussing like a child."

"Don't presume to treat me like one," Pietro snapped.

"I will warn you _once._ " Wyndham leveled him with a brittle look. "Comport yourself like a man. I won't have this court believing that I harbor weaklings in my court, or that our bloodline grows thinner with my brother's get."

"His _get_? You mean his true heirs," Pietro told him. His eyes were arctic, and his shoulders drew back in challenge. Wyndham's lips curled, and the smile was beneficent until it reached his eyes.

"Oh, to be young and naive once more."

*

 

Nicholas paused by the palace infirmary and store room in the lower level of the castle, hand hovering over the heavy wood before he knocked on it sharply. He didn’t relish this visit, but he acknowledged the need.

One of the palace housekeepers opened the chamber door and eyed him warily. “Mr. Fury. Have you need of the doctor?”

“Not for physicking,” he assured her blandly. “But I do need to consult with him.”

“He’s… occupied with His Majesty.”

“I will allow him to return to him shortly. I’m sure His Majesty will not mind.”

She colored darkly, hand fluttering to her chest. “Pardon me, Mr. Fury,” she told him, and she hurried back from the threshold and only left a crack of space between the door and the frame. Nicholas heard her hectic murmurs from within the chamber and exhaled roughly. He recognized the physician’s deeper, measured tones, and Nicholas was impressed that he managed to hide his exasperation – for the most part – at being interrupted. He listened to the footsteps echoing off the stone tile and wore a calm expression when Stephen Strange greeted him at the door. The doctor’s smile was stiff but benign.

“How may I serve you, Lord Advisor?”

“Good afternoon. I’ve come to check on your progress in preparing His Majesty’s remains.”

“Things are progressing as expected,” he told him easily, but he straightened up noticeably, an immediate tell that he resented the question, and Nicholas for plying him with it.

“Her Majesty will find that comforting,” Nicholas assured him, but his voice was bone-dry. “I need you to go over the death certificate. I need a cause of death to document in the palace records, Doctor.”

Stephen nodded, making a sound of agreement. “Well. Perhaps you should come in. We can go over it in my anteroom.”

Nicholas regretted his trip downstairs immediately as the scent of the chamber hit him. There was a strong stench of herbs and potions that were used to treat the palace’s occupants, but a scent of death lingered there, a grim reminder, indeed. Nicholas reached into his pocket and recovered a handkerchief, covering his mouth with it.

“You grow used to it, after a while,” Stephen told him.

“That’s not comforting, Doctor.”

“No. No, perhaps it can’t be,” he agreed, but there was a flash of humor in his sharp blue eyes. “Come. Bring that here.” Stephen produced an inkpot and quill, as well as a tall candle and book of matches. The sconces were lit in the chamber, but the room was still dark enough to make reading the papyrus difficult. Stephen lit the taper and set it in an already wax-dribbled holder, and Nicholas laid out the scroll, smoothing it with his hands. Stephen ran his fingers down the neat handwriting, mouthing the words to himself.

“Everything looks in order,” he remarked. “Date. Time. Expired. This makes for stiff reading. How do you manage not to go mad, perusing these dusty old records every-“

“Doctor. Please direct your attention to this line, here,” Nicholas reminded him curtly. He pointed to the blank line at the bottom, “Cause of Death.”

“Ah. Yes. In my opinion-“

“This record is no place for opinions, Doctor. Only truths. I require the reason why my king left this earth, to record for the posterity and peace of mind of the family he left behind. The _royal_ family. And the records must be _accurate to a fault._ ”

"His Majesty died of heart failure. He suffered from problems with edema. Swelling," he told Nicholas, his tone condescending. "The burden on his heart was too much."

Fury made a thoughtful sound, then nodded. "Heart failure. That's your diagnosis that I will record on the certificate?"

"As you must," Stephen agreed.

"Indicate that on his line, in your own words, Doctor."

Stephen took the quill, dipped it in the ink pot, and scratched the narrative on the proffered line. From a pouch hanging from his belt, Nicholas produced a small gold seal. He took the taper and tipped it over the papyrus, letting the wax pool, and he pressed the end of the seal into is, stamping it with the royal insignia.

"I hereby decree this as the sworn statement of His Majesty King George Barnes' demise." Nicholas signed the scroll below the fresh wax seal, adding "To be permanently documented in the royal records. Irrevocable and binding." The emphasis that he gave the words sounded stern to Stephen's ears.

"Of course."

"I will leave you to your work, Doctor."

"Always a pleasure when you stop by, Nicholas."

Nicholas doubted this claim as Stephen's assistant shooed him out.

*

Steve went through the kitchen’s store rooms and pantry, checking the selections of herbs in their various pots, jars and tins to see which ones he needed to harvest from the garden. Cook caught him by the shoulder before he could leave.

“I could use some more of those lovely tart, green apples you brought me last time. Her Majesty’s looking a bit peaked. She might like some of my nice cobbler at supper.”

“I can bring you a bushel or two,” Steve promised, giving her a wan smile.

She squeezed his upper arm, then wrapped her fingers around it in a gesture that frequently annoyed him, measuring its width. “You could use some feeding up, too. Your darling mother wouldn’t want me starving her boy.”

“You haven’t been,” he told her politely. “You’d think I had a higher station, with how well I dine here.”

Cook gave him a light swat. “No more talk of stations, Steven Rogers! Someone might hear.” She went back to her bowl of dough, dumping it out with a heavy _plommpphh!_ onto the floured table. Her bulky shoulders and bosom shook as she pounded and kneaded it for the day’s bread. “So. You’ll bring me those apples.”

“And quickly, too.”

“Bless your heart,” she told him. “Take a cookie,” she added, nodding to the earthen jar. Steve grinned and reached under the lid, snagging two gingersnaps. Then he had a thought.

“May I take a few?”

“You’ll ruin your supper!”

“No, no… not just for me. I’m headed out to the training yard for a minute.”

“Oh. Well, all right, then. A _few_ ,” she qualified.

“Just a few.” He reached back into the jar and took four more, then wrapped them up in a cloth napkin. Steve escaped the humid stuffiness of the kitchen and shivered when the first blast of cold air hit his flesh. It smelled brisk and clean outside, and he saw the knights and pages out in the yard training, using practice swords, shields and flails. He noticed Clint and Natasha were not among them, nor (to his disappointment) was Bucky.

A flurry of movement caught his eye from the left, and he saw Willie in a drab, gray muslin tunic, slightly soiled, tussling with one of the pages, uncaring of appearances or station, and Steve felt a pang of how it felt, missing how easy things were between himself and Bucky, once. How had so much distance grown between them, despite living within arm’s reach every day?

Willie felt Steve’s eyes on him, and he grinned, gesturing for Steve to wait. The page huffed, straightening his clothes, then ducking as Willie ruffled his hair before darting away. Steve waited for Willie to reach him.

“What’s in the cloth?”

“A treat for your brother, if I can find him.”

“None for me?” Willie looked put out, but the corner of his lips curled as Steve grinned and shook his head.

“You’ll have to raid the kitchen yourself, like I did. And I owe Cook a bushel of apples, so these weren’t free.”

“Ugh… that sounds like too much work,” Willie decided. “So I can’t have one, then?”

“Not these,” Steve told him, even as he feinted away from Willie’s halfhearted grab for the napkin of gingersnaps. “Where is he? Is he with Clint?”

“And Natasha,” Willie volunteered. “Shooting range. As usual.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s just trying to get out of a fitting,” Willie accused before Steve could turn to leave.

“Fittings never appealed to him,” Steve agreed.

Willie flushed and his eyes suddenly found the grass very interesting. “Or to me.” Then he met Steve’s eyes again. “Was this what it was like? For you?”

“For me?”

“When… when you lost Joseph… er, your father,” Willie said. “And…”

“It’s different for everyone,” Steve explained. “It’s… difficult. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to think, or… how to look forward, for a long time. But I remembered that they would have wanted me to move forward. And to remember them. Remember the good things. And that they loved me.”

Willie’s eyes glistened, and Steve wanted so much to reach out for him; it hurt to keep his arms down at his sides. The Barnes siblings were his playmates, once, and the youngest two were his charges, too. Now he was their servant, and he felt the shift in his role keenly. Willie bore the burden of the younger son in the royal family. Not to rule, but to support his brother’s rule and to continue Bucky’s example and influence over the estate. There was no more time for games or indolent pursuits. Willie lost his childhood when he lost his father.

Steve didn’t add that he didn’t have the luxury of seeking comfort in his best friend’s affections, not publicly. Solace between any two other people wouldn’t have been forbidden. “Willie? Er… William?” Steve flushed, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Because this, too, was something he struggled with, reconciling his former playmate with the prince, stationed beneath the child whom he once carried on his back. “Your Highness,” he finally corrected himself, and he saw the resignation, the hint of refusal in Willie’s eyes, heard the sharp inhale. As though this loss, too, was something he felt as harshly as Steve did.

“Yes… Mr. Rogers?” he attempted, and oh, it felt wrong, it felt so _wrong_ , when things had once been so easy between them.

“You have my deepest condolences. I’m so sorry for your family’s loss.”

Because it was all he could give him, anymore. Words. Such a shallow, hollow substitute for a hug. 

"Thank you."

“Excuse me.”

“Steve,” Willie called after him.

“Yes?”

“I wish…” The words were stuck in his throat. He gave Steve a look full of longing, then shuttered it before any of the knights or pages could see. Steve felt his focus shift from Willie to those surrounding them, heard the sounds of practice swords hitting posts and low, subdued chatter. He also noticed Brock on the periphery, pausing in his conversation to watch Steve, some strange, predatory gleam in his eye. Steve blanched.

“I need to find Bu- your brother… his Majesty,” Steve explained. “Excuse me, Highness.”

Willie still looked unhappy with the address, but he gave Steve a nod. Steve rushed off toward the range, emotions warring in his chest.

He wasn’t disappointed to find Clint and Nat arguing hell for leather about the target full of still-thrumming arrows and whose was closest to the center of the bullseye.

“I’ll give you a millimeter at _best,_ Barton.”

“Then you’re stingy in your regard, both for me and my shot, Miss Romanoff. Mine’s closer by the width of at least my _thumbnail_ ,” Clint insisted. Nat folded her arms, her expression positively _mulish_.

"Stingy? How could I be, when I'm so generous with my friendship, despite your questionable character and judgment?”

Clint mimed a blow to the heart, jerking back on staggering feet. Bucky managed to maintain his straight face until he caught Steve’s eye.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

“Good afternoon, master gardener.”

Steve bit the inside of his lip. Bucky’s eyes crinkled.

“Are those gingersnaps?”

“No. They’re stolen goods, sire.” He held the napkin out to Bucky, letting the corner of it fall open enticingly.

“So you’re saying I must punish you for your thievery?”

“Must you?”

Bucky reached into the napkin and took one of the fragrant, crusty cookies. “Indeed. You won’t profit from your misdeeds, sir.”

“I beg your pardon, Majesty,” Natasha cut in, “but if anyone will be doling out punishment to this scoundrel it will be me.”

“Isn’t it _my_ responsibility to punish my own staff?”

“By birth, perhaps,” Nat allowed. “But your sentence would be too soft. And your judgment, biased.”

“She’s right,” Clint pointed out. Bucky pouted, hurt. Steve shrugged his shoulders.

“She really is,” Steve added.

“My judgment’s not… _biased_.” Bucky bit into the cookie, making a pleased sound. “My gardener’s been thieving. He has what’s coming to him, coming to him.”

“Don’t be shy with those,” Clint broke in as he reached for the napkin.

“I beg your pardon? Ladies first,” Nat scolded as she swatted Clint’s hand. He mouthed a low “Ow!” and rubbed the wound. Her green eyes pronounced _How dare you, sir?_ as she extracted a cookie.

“Then Barton should have been first,” Steve decided, shrugging again. “Beg his pardon, Miss Romanoff.”

“I certainly will _not_.”

“You _should_.” Clint knocked his shoulder into Nat’s, interrupting her bite. She wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, glaring up at him. 

“I will never beg anything of his Majesty’s master archer,” Nat told them.

“We’ll see,” Clint murmured, before taking a bite of his own treat.

“What?”

“What?” he repeated, shrugging. Nat narrowed her eyes at him. 

Steve cleared his throat as he glanced at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes crinkled again, and he turned away, replacing his bow in the trunk of weapons.

“Back to Rogers’ punishment,” Nat said. “Fencing practice.”

“Oh. Well. That’s… I intend to honor my king’s sentence for my heinous crime,” Steve said. “But… I have apples to gather for Cook, first.”

“Then why aren’t you gathering them?” Nat folded her arms and raised her brows.

“I wanted to…” He glanced at Bucky, then looked away just as quickly. 

“He wanted to share stolen goods with us,” Clint told her simply. “At least he’s generous.”

“Someone had better not be implying that _I’m not_.”

“Implying?” Clint’s smile was smug. 

Nat’s arms unfolded, hands settling on her hips instead in a posture Steve, Bucky and Clint had all learned to fear.

“I don’t like that look in your eye,” Clint admitted.

“You shouldn’t, Barton.”

“I’ll go pick my apples, if it pleases his Majesty.” Steve looked to Bucky to give him leave, but Bucky held up his hand.

“A moment, master thief.” Bucky nodded to Clint and Nat, giving them a gesture of dismissal. They moved off, dutifully retrieving the arrows and taking their time about it. “Other than delivering stolen goods… are you begging an audience with me about anything else?”

“If it pleases your Majesty, yes.”

Steve released a breath. “I know I shouldn’t be bothering you with trifles.”

“Why shouldn’t you? Everyone else owns my ear with their trifles, Steve.”

“There’s the small matter of the flowers. The seasons have turned. I have no more roses to offer to dress the chapel. Or the coronation hall. I would like to know if I may have his Majesty’s leave to use begonias.”

“Whatever you choose will be suitable. And lovely.”

“You approve?”

“I do.”

Bucky’s tone was soft, but his eyes… they were so tired. Bleak.

“I won’t trouble you any further. Thank you, your Majesty.”

“Stop.”

Steve’s throat closed up, and he felt a chill shiver down his arms.

“Don’t. Just… right now, don’t.”

“Majesty…”

“Steve.”

The informal address said so much of what Bucky couldn’t.

If the thwarted urge to embrace Willie had merely made Steve ache, restraining himself from touching Bucky felt like someone cut out Steve’s heart, then forced him to dance barefoot over broken glass.

“I will leave you to-“

“No. You won’t.”

“Pardon?”

“You won’t. You’re coming with me.”

Bucky walked away without another word, and Steve’s feet obeyed his order automatically. He schooled his posture and expression, not wanting anyone assembled in the yard to think anything was amiss. They strolled – Bucky strode, Steve struggled to remain no more than two paces behind him, for _reasons_ \- toward the gardening shed, and Steve’s heart pounded. It was such a sensitive time. There were so many expectations that mustn’t be forgotten or ignored, nor their importance minimized… They were all under so much pressure, that…

Steve searched for words, any that might make a midday visit from the fledgling king to his humble shed feasible. “Have you a need for herbs? For a tonic? If something ails my king-“

“Something ails your king,” Bucky mused as he preceded him inside. “Shut the door, Steve.”

Steve swallowed. Bucky continued his way inside, his back to Steve as he looked at his surroundings, eyes scanning the various pots of plants and roots soaking in jars, the large sacks of moist dark soil. Steve gently closed the door and backed his way against it. “Sire?”

“Latch it. Make sure no one can get in, Steve.”

Steve knew Bucky had to hear his heart pounding. Bucky closed his eyes at the sound of the low click as Steve slid the latch shut and secured the hasp with a long metal pin.

“Come here.”

“Sire…”

“Bucky.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, and he clenched his fists. He shook his head as Bucky turned to face him, and Bucky gave him a sad, sweet smile. “Indulge me.”

“I want to. I’m forbidden.”

“Not by me.”

“No. By you. By birth.”

“Whose?”

“Both of ours.”

“You’d flagrantly steal sweets from Cook, and present them to me without fear of punishment, but you won’t obey my order to come to my side?”

“One cannot stand beside the one whom he must stand behind.”

“How can you stand behind me, when I’ve lifted you on pedestal?”

Steve felt his balance betray him. He shook his head, felt his eyes spark.

“Majesty-“

“No. Bucky. I’m Bucky. I’m your Bucky.”

Steve shook his head. “Please. I… can’t… want this. I… you’re having a bad turn, Majesty. You’ve suffered a loss, and-“

“You can want this. And I can want… _this_. You’re my servant,” Bucky reminded him, needlessly. “And as such, I expect you to obey me when I give you a command.”

“Very well.”

And he stepped forward, hearing a rushing, pounding in his ears, the presence of the man he loved in the tiny shed incongruous as it was forbidden. The plants seemed to cry out to him, “Go no further.” Steve closed the gap between them, but he stopped short, then slowly, painstakingly knelt. The earth felt cold and hard under his knees, greeting him like an old friend. 

“No. You… you won’t do that. Get up. Rise. Back on your feet.” Steve closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“What does my king command of me?”

“That my gardener look at me and _get back up._ ”

“Majesty.”

“Bucky.” Bucky’s voice was gruff, but soft. “I’m Bucky, Steve. That won’t change until that crown is placed upon my head.”

“It’s already there.”

“Not yet. And you will give me this, if you care for me at all, Steve.”

And Steve cursed himself for looking up, because Bucky’s eyes were limpid and overflowing, his face a rictus of heartbreak, and he could never resist him, anyway. He could never deny him or take back his love for him. This was his bosom playmate, Bucky of the freshly raked leaves, Bucky of the drifting clouds across a summer sky, Bucky of cherry-scented swirls of pipe smoke and stolen whiskey, Bucky of acrid liniment heated caresses in front of a crackling fire. This was _Bucky_ , dropping to his knees to meet him, even though it was a sacrilege for which Steve would be punished if anyone found out.

“ _Bucky._ You can’t.”

“I can. They tell me the king can do what he wants.”

Steve shook his head, and his own eyes gleamed, and his mouth tried to form words of reason, but they failed him. Bucky’s grip on his arms was insistent and firm. He wanted to refute that flash of satisfaction in Bucky’s eyes at hearing Steve use his first name, but… “Bucky.”

“I love you. And I’m scared to death. About so many things, Steve.”

“You’re not supposed to love me.”

“When has that ever stopped me?”

The tears rolled freely down Steve’s cheeks, but he wiped at Bucky’s instead, hand rasping over his stubble. Bucky closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, letting Steve cradled his cheek in his palm, which was the only thing that ceased its shaking.

“I made a promise to the Queen.”

“To my mother?” Bucky asked, and Steve’s breath caught in his throat.

“No.”

“To Wanda.”

“Yes.”

And that answered so many of Bucky’s secret questions in an instant.

“You will keep your part of the promise.”

Steve wanted to harden himself against the look in Bucky’s eyes, even though it was undoing him. “You have to keep your _vows_.”

Those words broke something fragile and precious between them. Bucky released a shuddering breath and hung his head in shame, but his hands clung to Steve, clutching at the fabric of his sleeves. That should have been the end of it. Steve should have urged Bucky to rise, to straighten himself and unlock the shed, allowing Bucky to leave first, wait an explainable amount of time, then follow him out.

Steven Grant Rogers had a knack for doing all of the things everyone told him not to, and he had the even poorer habit of not being sorry.

He hesitated, then closed his eyes, letting his head incline itself, urged by gravity, until his forehead touched Bucky’s on its own. “Bucky,” he whispered.

"Days," Bucky rasped. "Mere days until I receive the crowd. Until then, I am your prince, and I have lost my father." Bucky stroked Steve’s jaw, letting his thumb linger at the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I’ve lost _myself._ ”

“No. You haven’t. You’ve lost none of what makes you… _you_. James Buchanan Barnes, His Royal Majesty. Long may he reign.” 

“I don’t want it. I don’t want this. I don’t want this burden if it means… if it means I lose _you_.” Bucky’s nose dripped; Steve automatically reached up and wiped the tip with the edge of his tunic cuff, then mopped away more of Bucky’s tears, even while his own continued to dampen his collar. “You asked me what I command of you.”

“Anything.” This was given without hesitation.

“Hold me. Just, hold me.”

Steve nodded quickly, and his arms snared Bucky close, making the breath shudder free from them both. Bucky shifted off-balance, tipping back against the edge of the planting table, and Steve was caught in his momentum, toppling against him. They sat sprawled like that, with Steve gathered in Bucky’s embrace, temple pressed against his pulse, his heart hammering beneath Steve’s palm.

“As my king commands.”

Bucky’s lips found their way into Steve’s hair, and he breathed in his scent, stealing comfort from that spare frame and those slender hands that were clutching at him, stroking Bucky’s back.

Minutes. It was all they would allow themselves, knowing anyone who saw them leave would talk. Steve couldn’t afford wagging tongues. Indiscretion lost servants – even knights – their lives. But he gave himself this, selfishly, the untarnished, unbridled joy of having the man he loved in his arms and hearing him confess that his feelings for Steve hadn’t dwindled.

“You’re still Bucky.”

“And my heart is still yours, Steven Grant Rogers.”

*

 

“Where are my apples?” Cook asked, flummoxed. She threw up her hands. “I’ll never get the cobbler made in time!”

“Whose carriage is that?” asked the scullery girl, as they heard its wheels clattering against the paver stones in the courtyard.

“Oh, blast it all,” muttered Cook. 

*

“They’ve been in the shed for a long time,” Clint remarked.

“Care to knock?” Natasha asked.

“No. No chance in hell, Miss Romanoff.”

*

Wanda hurried out to the courtyard, sailing in a swirl of red skirts down the steps and not caring a whit about decorum. Her brother leaned his silver head out the window of the carriage, grinning at her as she pushed past the footman. Wanda gripped the door handle and jerked it open, and Pietro caught her up into his arms before he’d even stepped down to the ground.

“Missed you,” he huffed.

“Yet you stayed away, anyway,” she accused, but her eyes sparked as she finally let him step all the way down, and he hugged her properly.

“This isn’t dignified,” he reminded her.

“You won’t allow me my happiness? I’m just overjoyed to see my brother,” Wanda scolded, and her smile was open. His faltered slightly as he drank in the sight of her.

“You’re looking too thin,” he mused. There were smudges under her eyes, too, but she merely smiled.

“I am well. Don’t fret over me, Pietro.”

“You’re safe. That’s all that matters to me, right now.” Because that was another discussion they needed to have behind closed doors. Word had already reached him of Wanda’s interrupted honeymoon.

“Well. Don’t I get a proper greeting?” Herbert’s voice was smug and amused, but his eyes were still flinty, that smile brittle. Pietro held onto her protectively until Wanda stared up at him with a look of warning.

“Pietro… don’t,” she whispered.

“I don’t want him to so much as breathe on you,” he hissed back, even as he mustered polite smiles for onlookers gathering around the yard. Servants hurried to unpack their trunks from the carriage, and Herbert accepted a curtsy and greeting from one of the maids, who offered to show him to his guest quarters.

“I will bear it. And you will release me,” Wanda told him. “Don’t worry. We will find time to catch up. Over wine.”

“Red?”

“Red, yes.”

Pietro reluctantly let her go, and Wanda went to her uncle, giving him a perfunctory hug.

“Marriage suits you, Wanda.” Wyndham embrace was too firm, and he held her in place, giving the impression of affection to those watching, but the message to Wanda was clear; he would move her wherever he wished, like a chess piece. “And so will the crown.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Wanda hissed. “This is a time of mourning for their kingdom.”

“Your kingdom,” he corrected her. “I hope they’ve provided you with a coronation gown that befits your status, niece.”

“I’m wearing black, to honor my father-in-law and his memory. He was a kind man.”

“For the burial, wear whatever you wish. For the coronation, you will present yourself with decorum. You will carry out your responsibility to the throne.” He leaned in before taking the maid’s cue that she was ready to show him his room while the footmen struggled with the trunks. “And to mine.”

Brock met Wyndham at the entrance, and he clapped the knight on the shoulder, leaning in close to him as he spoke. Wanda and Pietro felt unease settle over at them as they watched the exchange.

“Since when is he friendly with the knights in George’s court?”

Wanda wished she could answer her brother’s question, but she needed to visit the kitchen to check the progress of the evening meal and the place settings in the dining room. “I’ll show you to your suite, Pietro. You must be exhausted.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He mentioned he might visit the shooting range, but that he would find me for supper,” she told him easily. “I wanted to give him some space to clear his head.” Wanda looped her hand through the crook of her twin’s arm. “You remember how this feels.” Pietro nodded grimly as they strolled down the corridor and up the staircase.

Twenty minutes later, Steve returned to the kitchen, clothing put to rights and with his hair neatly combed, face scrubbed clean and carrying a large basket of apples. Cook cried out to him in high dudgeon.

“Oh! There you are! No one could find you, Steven! I was worried to death! Time’s a-wasting, they’ve already begun showing up on our doorstep! The cobbler won’t make itself! I might have to make some apple turnovers, now, too. We’ve a full house tonight.”

“Who is here?”

“His Majesty Herbert Wyndham,” she told him, “and Princess Wanda’s brother, the one with the pretty hair.”

Steve chuckled. Cook wouldn’t be able to call Wanda “Princess” anymore, soon, but he didn’t mention this. “He is pretty, isn’t he?”

“Oh, don’t be impertinent!” She gave him a rough swat. “Go! Help the girls in the dining room! Bring in some flowers for the table!”

“Of course,” Steve agreed, and it didn’t bother him to have another excuse to go back outside, once he reported to the dining room. There were already six maids, assembling plates, flatware and the finest goblets and stewards descending into the cellar for casks of wine. They made haste, laying out tablecloths and runners, folding napkins immaculately, plumping the cushions of the chairs and dusting the arms with rags until they gleamed.

Steve went out and began harvesting the loveliest of the autumn flowers, crepe myrtle and begonias, bundling them with green trimmings for the table arrangements. He took tangible comfort in the plants and the fresh, pungent scent of the moist earth and grass. 

*

Bucky had left the shed after the knights departed from the yard. Steve waited a few minutes, following Nat’s suggestion once she peeped her head inside and found him straightening his shirt and mopping at his face with a damp cloth.

Her green eyes were filled with a mixture of sympathy and caution. “Don’t walk out there with your feelings on your face, Rogers.”

“I have no plans to be put in stocks today,” Steve agreed.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Don’t go easy on me, Natasha.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Steve. I’m your friend. Because you’re a good man, and because in my station, _I can be_.”

“I’m well aware of my station.”

“Then you’re equally aware that you can’t continue to moon over a king.”

“I’m still mooning over a prince. I have a few more days.”

He was half-expecting her death grip on his arm.

“I can’t protect you from yourself if you keep defeating my efforts.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to protect me from myself.” His blue eyes looked bleak. “A life without him isn’t much of a life at all.”

“You could request to be removed from his service. Find a living elsewhere. Perhaps as a healer. Your mother was talented, and you know everything she-“

“No. I could never ask that.”

“Yet you’ll live in heartbreak.”

“Natasha.” Steve took a measured breath. “Don’t you see? Hear me, and understand me clearly when I tell you that I will love James Buchanan Barnes until it’s time to lay my wretched body in the grave.” She stepped aside as he moved past her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have apples to pick.”

*

As though she had summoned him with her words, a smaller, less grand carriage arrived, dressed in Thaddeus’ Ross’s colors and insignia. His royal physician, Dr. Banner, stepped outside to little ceremony, and the footman carried in his small trunk while he carried his own dark leather medicine bag. The maid who greeted him bobbed her head. “Dr. Banner. How lovely that you’ve arrived safely and in time for supper. Allow me to show you to your room. You must want to freshen up.”

“It’s been too long since I’ve acquainted myself with a damp rag. It’s a bit close inside that carriage.”

“You must be famished, sir,” she told him with genuine sympathy.

“Yes, I am. Something smells delicious.”

“Cook’s made her Majesty’s favorite cobbler tonight. Come. This way.”

“Before you show me to my room, may I please speak with Stephen?”

Her brows drew together. “The gardener?”

“Pardon? Oh, no. Not… I need the taller one. The court physician?”

“Oh, of course! How ridiculous I must sound. I’m such a goose. I will have him summoned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. More angst. Sorry.


	11. Wounds So Fresh, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank words over cobbler and wine. Formal greetings and clandestine meetings happen while a kingdom mourns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last installment was getting long, so I’m breaking it up. And of course, I get impatient to post once I finally get the mojo to update something. This story has been tricky because it has a lot going on in it. Thanks to anyone who gave me encouragement so far or waited patiently for more.

“Was his Majesty’s carriage far behind when you left?” Becca inquired after Dr. Banner rose from politely kissing her hand, and to her sister’s delight, Fee’s.

“He left the palace directly. He should arrive soon.”

“I hope he does. I’m famished,” Fiona confessed. Dr. Banner reached down and gave her small shoulder a fond squeeze.

“A growing young lady like you needs her nourishment,” he agreed.

“I am growing!” she boasted. “I’m going to be even bigger than Becca one day!” Becca shook her head and huffed, looping a protective arm around her sister and pulling Fee against her.

“Goose,” she murmured fondly.

“I like your spectacles,” Fiona told Dr. Banner.

“Thank you. I like them very much, myself. I can’t see without them.”

“Dr. Banner?” Willie rounded the corner and greeted him with a firm handshake; Bruce was impressed by his wiry strength. “I’m William. I didn’t get to meet you last time.”

“I wish we had met this time under happier circumstances. Allow me to extend my sincerest condolences, your Highness.”

“Thank you. Doctor, I have been asked to fetch you.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you wished to speak with Dr. Strange.”

“Oh!” Bruce straightened his glasses and his tunic out of instinct, and Fee’s mouth quirked in a mischievous smile. “Indeed! I did! I mean, I do. I still do.”

“This way. Come with me, please.”

Dr. Banner indulged the fleeting thought that William was his brother James’ younger doppelganger, and he wondered where the time had gone. He remembered his last journey to George’s palace, on the night that Sarah Rogers was taken from them. The Barnes’ children had wandered out from their suites, clad in nightclothes and investigating the commotion, peering furtively out into the corridor as Joseph paced the hall periodically, praying and resuming his vigil over Sarah. Willie had been smaller and leaner; now, his voice owned deeper, adult tones and his shoulders were considerably broader. He had shot up in height, and Winifred’s tailors would have to struggle to keep up with his growth spurt. His ankles already betrayed the hemlines of his trousers.

Dr. Banner found himself led downstairs, to the palace infirmary, and the memories from that fateful night rushed back, except the sensation of gloom and resignation was thicker and more palpable. He smelled the familiar medicaments and herbs and the burning odors of a decoction as he was shown to the door of the chamber. Dr. Strange’s assistant peered through a crack in the door, then slowly opened it to admit Bruce.

“Dr. Banner. I bid you welcome.”

“Good evening.”

“He’s just through here.” The chamber was warm; a fire had been lit in a small stove, and Bruce was grateful for it after the drafty carriage.

Stephen Strange looked just as taciturn as he remembered, but his black hair was shot through with more bits of gray, and the brackets around his mouth had deepened. “Bruce,” he greeted him, extending his hand for Bruce to grip firmly, clasping his shoulder with the other. “Would that we could meet during happier times.”

“It’s our lot in life to dole out more sad tidings than glad, my friend.”

“Come. Sit, and warm yourself.”

Stephen poured them both generous cups of tea with honey and milk. “So. You’re no doubt here about George’s examination.”

“My king expects an explanation for the death of yours, and an account of his final hours. He wishes to be well prepared for the coronation, and if necessary, a chance to revisit the contracts George signed prior to his demise.”

Stephen paused in stirring his tea. “The contracts are sealed with George’s signature and mark. They are binding.”

“King Thaddeus has some concerns he would like addressed.”

“Does he?”

“I’m afraid so.” Bruce sipped his tea, eyeing Stephen over the rim of the cup. “Concerns that he perhaps failed to share with me during his last visit, when his oldest son wed.”

“Perhaps he didn’t need to at the time,” Stephen mused.

“Stephen. Allow me to speak frankly with you.”

“We’re nothing if not frank, by trade,” Stephen reminded him. 

Bruce gave him a tidy smile and removed his spectacles, polishing them on his sleeve. “My king wants reassurance.”

“About what?”

“That the king’s death didn’t involve foul play.”

Stephen leveled him with his steely blue eyes, cup pausing just shy of his lips.

“Reassurance.”

“If I could trouble you, my friend, I will need to review your journals.”

*

Winifred sat at the vanity as her maid went through the armoire, removing items of George’s clothing. She watched, hollow-eyed, as she carefully laid each garment over the bed, smoothing them out.

“We can air them out and press them, Majesty, before we pack them away.”

“Use your time well. Finish it quickly,” she admonished. “It’s not something I want drawn out.”

“No, Majesty. Of course, Majesty.”

Winifred sighed, wiping the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.

So many preparations, when she had so little energy. She still had a household to manage, and a daughter-in-law to prepare for the coronation, and a husband to bury…

Winifred eschewed the seamstress’ offer of a new gown for the coronation. Her heart wasn’t in the process, and there wasn’t enough time to finish anything suitable. And, to Winifred’s thinking, it was Wanda’s day to fill her shoes as queen. Bucky’s wife couldn’t be expected to hide her light under a bushel while Winifred mourned. Winifred heard the carriages arrive from her window, but she couldn’t muster the desire to greet her guests yet. 

She didn’t realize that things were going to change again, sooner than anyone thought.

*

Nicholas sat toward the center of the head table, having heads together with Nat and Clint as the platters of food circulated the room in the hands of maids and stewards. “Explain something to me, if you will,” Nick murmured as he leaned in, gesturing to Clint with his cup. “Why on earth are the two of you training the gardener to shoot a bow and arrow?”

“Why on earth not?” Clint countered as he eagerly cut his slice of roast beef. “He’s trainable. He hasn’t the sharpest aim, perhaps, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm.”

Natasha made a choking sound, struggling as she inadvertently inhaled her wine. Clint ignored the scandalized looks from their neighbors at the table and pounded her on the back. “Don’t swill it, it’s from his Majesty’s cellar. We’re not at the tavern, Miss Romanoff.” That didn’t earn him a reprieve from their stares, or Natasha from their judgment, since she still wore a lady’s garments at court. Natasha recovered from her spell and glared at Clint, swiftly kicking him under the table.

“We’re calling Rogers’ efforts ‘enthusiastic,’ now, are we?” Nicholas raised his brows. His expression was bland enough, but Natasha and Clint knew the king’s sharp-tongued advisor better than that. 

“Not as enthusiastic with an arrow on the range as he is in the planting shed,” Natasha told him.

This time, Clint choked on his wine.

“Don’t be so greedy. Your cup isn’t trying to run away,” Natasha said.

The other occupants went back to more suitable topics of dinner discourse, ignoring the ruffians across the table. 

“The palace gardener isn’t a knight. Defending the castle isn’t his sworn duty. Why teach him how to shoot?”

“Once more, Mr. Fury, I ask you: Why not?” Clint shrugged. “It’s the duty of all who live in the castle to serve, and if necessary, to protect the royal family. Even our deceptively delicate gardener.”

“We’re teaching him how to use a sword, too,” Nat added as she picked apart a flaky bread roll. “He’s improving a bit. Give him time.”

They didn’t explain that the training exercises helped their friend to cope with his reduced status, from the new king’s lover to a mere servant in the wake of the royal wedding. Watching Steve heft a sword – and a flail, whip and shield, because Natasha had left out those details, too – worked out his frustrations and feelings of abject helplessness. There was something satisfying about seeing the flash of indignant anger in those blue eyes as he sized Clint or Nat up, adopting the fencing stance that managed not to look awkward shaped from his slight body. Despite Nat’s earlier misgivings about Steve’s dancing skills, he maneuvered gracefully when he fought, since his smaller size made it easier for him to feint, evade and break holds and trip up a bulkier opponent. His style mimicked Nat’s, since she knew well how to use the other combatant’s size and momentum against them. 

And because Clint enjoyed overstepping the boundaries more flagrantly than Natasha, and didn’t know the definition of discretion, he taught Steve how to ride, too. They took the homely piebald mare and a feisty gelding out into the brush, where Steve cantered, galloped, and rode through a gauntlet of rough trails and narrowly spaced trees. Astride a horse, Steve saw the world from a higher, more powerful vantage point, and it was heady. Thrilling. More so, since it was forbidden. Clint and Steve snuck out just before dusk most nights, with Natasha in tow. They arrived home just as the pages were dismissed to the stables to curry the knights’ mounts.

“The day that gardener fights to protect any member of this royal family, I will eat my boot,” Nicholas deadpanned. “But it’s not my duty to redirect your efforts.”

Clint huffed. “Good,” he muttered as he took a larger, more savage bite of roast. Nat just gave him a smug look as she cut her new potatoes into more ladylike chunks.

“I know you two are set in your ways. Perhaps His Majesty’s court isn’t as conventional as some,” Nicholas pointed out. “But it’s wise not to draw the wrong kind of attention from our kingdom’s peers. Not in the wake of our king’s passing.”

Nat frowned. “What do you know?”

“Nothing yet. Nothing ironclad.” 

“Miss Romanoff and I have grown fond of retiring to the His Majesty’s study before bed, for a nightcap,” Clint told him. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for brandy?”

Nicholas set down the wine glass he’d been about to sip from, nodding. “You know, I’ve developed a stronger taste for brandy, lately.”

“I’ll light the fire. With your more delicate constitution, Mr. Fury, I wouldn’t want you to catch a draft.”

Nicholas’ lips twitched.

*

Wyndham occupied the head of the other long table, with Brock seated to his right. Loki occupied the next seat, and they were flanked by various members of Wyndham’s court. Stephen and Bruce sat to his left, discussing various remedies and the results of studies they’d done with antifungals in low tones. Phillip watched the gathering from the doorway leading back through the passage way to the kitchen. He caught one of the young stewards by the arm and leaned in. “His Majesty might care for more wine,” he murmured into his ear.

“His Majesty?” Confusion flickered in his eyes. “Which one? There are three.” Thaddeus and his entourage had arrived, and the sedate dinner was anything but on his side of the room as he regaled his supporters of a wild game hunt they had enjoyed in Lord Ka-Zar’s territories. 

“Wyndham,” Phillip instructed. “Some of his late Majesty’s favorite red might go over well.” He clapped his shoulder. “Make haste.”

The steward hurried off while Phillip stopped by Bucky’s table, where he sat with his bride and brother-in-law. Bucky was uncharacteristically quiet, but his wife was animated and pleased, face glowing as she chatted with her twin. “Pietro, I want to show you the gardens after dinner, we didn’t have the chance last time. They’re lovely, but don’t get any ideas of stealing away my gardener.” She turned to Bucky for confirmation. “He’d better not, right, James?”

“I will fight you,” Bucky murmured. “Steve stays here.”

Pietro made a thoughtful sound. “Don’t worry. I have no plans to make off with him at the moment.”

“He’s been a godsend. He grows all of my favorite herbs for my oils and bath potion.”

The words “bath potion” made a tiny smile tug at Bucky’s lips. He remembered Steve running to catch him before they left for their honeymoon, and the purpose of the small, green glass vial in his hand. Pity they’d never had the chance to test it…

“I’m only sorry you couldn’t see the cottage on this visit,” Wanda told her brother. “A certain husband of mine has bragged to me about it often enough. It will take a miracle for things to settle down long enough to plan another trip.”

“I don’t think I want my sister off in remote cottages, with so few on hand to ensure her safety,” Pietro said. He gave Wanda’s hand a fond squeeze. But Wanda paled, and her eyes drifted down to her lap.

“I’m all right. Hale and all in one piece,” she assured him.

“Now,” Pietro told her. “What about tomorrow, and every day going forward in this court?”

“Pietro!” Wanda’s eyes snapped at him. “A little respect, please.”

“James,” Pietro said, pinning Bucky with his gaze. “Will you honor your vows to my sister? Will you protect her and care for her?”

“I do.” Yet anger pricked at Bucky, and he straightened up, abandoning the contents of his plate. “Are you casting doubt on my intentions? On my marriage to Wanda?” His voice rose despite Wanda’s look of warning. “On my ability to keep her safe?”

“Are you?” Pietro demanded. “Able?”

“PIETRO!” Wanda clutched his arm, but a muscle worked in Bucky’s sharp jaw.

“You were both attacked, while you rode with a contingent of _his_ knights,” Pietro accused. “Inside _his_ carriage. Someone knew you were making that journey, down that road.”

“Carriages get robbed all the time.”

“Not at arrow point.”

Both twins glared at each other. “Don’t try to tell me that was a robbery. No thief is secure enough in their skill to challenge a flank of knights on horseback.” 

“It wasn’t a robbery,” Bucky agreed. “But my guard drove them off. Thor, in particular, fought for your sister’s safety and made them turn tail.”

“While you cowered inside a carriage,” Pietro scoffed. His smile lacked beauty and restraint.

“Brother, that’s enough,” Wanda hissed. 

“I’ve lost enough family in carriages,” Pietro told Bucky. Wanda’s lips flattened.

“My gaining a bride didn’t mean you lost a sister. Don’t fear for Wanda. Not while I draw breath.”

Nicholas appeared by Bucky’s elbow, bringing the conversation to a welcome close. “Sire. A word.” Bucky excused himself and rose from the table. They remained silent as Nicholas led Bucky outside, deciding the courtyard would offer enough privacy. 

“It would be wise not to speak of the incident in such broad circles.”

“It wasn’t my intent to be indiscreet.”

“Yet you and your brother-in-law accomplished it admirably.”

Bucky exhaled roughly. “Apologies. It’s been… a difficult past few days. And trying.”

“Certainly, sire.” They stood in the brisk air, listening to a flock of starlings in the trees. “I will come to collect you shortly, Majesty. I would like to request an audience with your peers.”

“In regard to the coronation?”

“No. The incident on the road. You and your bride were attacked.”

“Indeed.” Bucky growled and tugged on the back of his hair. “We weren’t being robbed, contrary to my wife’s account.”

“We collected this from one of the men Thor dispatched.” Nick reached into the pouch at his waist and extracted a scrap of crumpled, stained fabric, handing it to Bucky. He took it and smoothed it with his palms.

“Ross’ mark.” It was the lion insignia, stained with minute spatters of dried blood. Bucky paled. “You didn’t tell me this before.” Dodging arrows in the carriage hadn’t give Bucky much of an opportunity to notice this detail himself, earlier.

“There has never been an ideal time to spread panic,” Nick reminded him. “Attempted assassinations won’t help your dinner guests’ digestion. Let them ruminate over the sorbet and wine. This is a matter for kings and those they employ to protect them.”

“Wyndham,” Bucky said. “And Ross. And whoever captains their guard, from both palaces. We will adjourn to the library.”

"I'll let Odinson know. And his brother.”

Bucky frowned. “Brother?”

“Sir Loki. He’s Thor’s half-brother.” Nicholas paused. “You didn’t know that, sire?”

“Not until now.”

“He rode out with him on the security detail when you left with your wife. He brought up the rear.”

In full armor and helm, Bucky mused to himself. Which would make it easy not to notice him, riding along with his entourage. Bucky wondered now, how many other things might have escaped his notice during his period of mourning. “He didn’t rise up through the ranks as a page,” Bucky remarked.

“You’re right, sire. He came here from Wyndham’s court. From what Odinson shared with me, they hadn’t always had the most harmonious relationship. Their father had Loki fostered out to learn blacksmithing in Wyndham’s territories to end their quarreling. But he didn’t take to it very well. Wyndham had him retrain as a knight, and he occasionally sends him out as his emissary.”

“His emissary?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Then perhaps he has something to contribute to our discussion, as you suggested, Mr. Fury.”

*

Winifred noticed her daughters yawning and signaled to their governess to take them upstairs. Willie, on the other hand, was eyeing an unsupervised, opened bottle of wine. “Don’t get any ideas,” she scolded under her breath. Willie, chastened, looked away, slumping into a sulk.

“M’old enough,” he complained.

“Bucky was older when we first allowed him a glass of wine,” Winifred argued. If her oldest had been in the vicinity, he would have leaned in and admitted to his brother that he was much _younger_ when he and Steve snuck their first sip of brandy in their father’s study. 

“Not even a sip?”

Winifred wavered. “No. It’s best if you don’t.”

“Best for _who?_ ”

“Please behave, William.” Her voice was testy, an indication that it was better for Willie not to press it any further. “If you’re tired, you should head off to bed.”

“M’not,” he retorted, toying with his knife, planting the tip on his plate and wobbling it back and forth with his index finger on the handle.

“Willie!”

He let the knife drop against the plate with a clatter. His mouth was thin and mulish, face flushed. Winifred felt a hint of guilt for the scold, but… she was worn out. She knew her son had crossed a threshold of his own, done with decorum.

“May I be excused then, Mother?”

“Indeed. You may.” He rose quickly and was about to hurry away. “Not like that.” She nodded and gestured to his chair, which he hadn’t pushed in, even though one of the stewards was about to deal with it. The steward pulled up short, looking expectant, then stepped back as the young prince shoved the chair into place, more roughly than necessary. “William.” Winifred’s voice was calm but firm. “Give me a proper goodnight.”

Willie went back to his mother’s side, hesitating for a moment, then bent down to kiss her cheek. “G’night,” he muttered.

“Rest well, William.”

They were all on such a short tether.

*

Bruce settled down in the anteroom of the infirmary, seated at a table lit by several candles; a larger sconce burned above him, the only other illumination in the gloomy chamber. A serving girl arrived with a lightweight wool blanket for him to drape over his lap against the chill as he sat with his tea, leafing through Stephen’s medical journals. The first one was roughly a year old. Stephen assured him he would bring him the rest in the morning.

“Let me know if you need anything else, my friend.” Stephen hovered in the doorway. “Don’t stay up too late. We’ve an early day tomorrow.”

“I wake with the roosters,” Bruce told him easily, giving him a tired smile. 

“Good night, sir.”

Bruce adjusted his spectacles and began to read the oldest entries:

_His Majesty came to me today with a shallow cough. I listened to his chest, and I found his usual murmur, a slight defect that I suspect he has had since infancy…_

That was a year ago. The farther along he read, Bruce noticed that George had been in excellent health for a man his age. There was nothing unusual about his constitution that couldn’t be explained by gradual progression and lifestyle habits. George enjoyed his pipe and brandy, but he had been active. 

_His Majesty presented today with a considerable amount of water retention. His fingers were puffy and his skin was flushed. I prescribed him a potion with diuretic properties, to help him release more urine…_

There was nothing out of the ordinary, yet. Nothing that should cause King Thaddeus undue alarm.

Or Dr. Banner himself.

*

Wanda and Pietro were bundled against the nighttime chill in heavy cloaks. They walked arm in arm through the garden, cheeks pink from the cold. “You’re too thin,” Pietro told her again.

“I haven’t had much of an appetite.”

“You miss Bova’s tarts,” Pietro told her. “They don’t know how to feed you properly here. Dismiss all of the kitchen staff at once!” He made a dramatic gesture of banishment and scowled to make her giggle.

“I miss home,” she corrected him. “And there’s nothing wrong with my kitchen staff. They’ve served their palace well. I’m just… tired, brother.” They stopped by a large oak tree, and Wanda leaned against it. “I can sense your turmoil. Please, don’t let it be for me.”

“I’m not allowed to worry about my little sister?”

“You’re only four minutes older.”

“And wiser,” he boasted, smirking. Wanda swatted him. 

“You should be finding a bride. Not acting as Uncle’s bodyguard.”

“That’s putting it pleasantly. I’m his blasted pet,” Pietro grumbled. “He merely wants me on display. If he sent me away, tongues would wag.”

“He can’t send you away from your home. It’s yours, Pietro.”

“And yours,” Pietro reminded her gruffly. 

“It’s a daughter’s duty to unburden her father through marriage.”

“You were never a burden.” Pietro tugged her hand, and she closed the gap between them, settling into his embrace. “Not you.”

“I miss them, Pietro. I miss them so much.”

“We should have had years. We should have had a lifetime with them, Wanda.”

“The gods weren’t so kind.”

“They spared us. They kept us together. And I’m going to protect you,” he vowed.

Wanda laughed hollowly. “And who is going to protect you, Pietro?” She pulled back and smoothed back a lock of his platinum hair. “I don’t trust Uncle. He wants me to steal him a kingdom. I’m disposable once that’s done. I want to be there to help you!”

Pietro’s face hardened. “Then perhaps I’m useless to him _now_. Unless he finds me a princess and signs more pretty contracts…”

“A man can only rule so many kingdoms,” Wanda told him bitterly. “The crown is yours. He is merely the regent.”

“Until we are twenty-two.” They had mere months until Pietro assumed the right to the throne. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

“You won’t have to for much longer,” Wanda promised, squeezing his hands. “Come what may, I will stand by you, Pietro.”

Pietro stared down at their linked hands. “You will stand by me?”

“Always.”

“Before or after you become a widow?”

His words chilled her, but she beckoned to him to continue their walk.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that, brother.”

*

Willie lingered in the corridor upstairs, delaying his trip to his chamber and evading the governess. He’d heard Fee’s sleepy, plaintive whines from the girls’ suite, and he was tempted to sneak off into the garden, but once glance out the window showed him that his sister-in-law and her twin beat him to it. Willie passed by the standing suit of armor at the bend in the hallway, and he grinned. He pulled the sword from the narrow scabbard, trying out the heft, and he did a few experimental parries and thrusts. Willie wasn’t ready to retire yet, and there had been no time for a leisurely horse ride, which would have at least cleared his head.

He enjoyed the sounds of the faint swish as he lashed the sword through the air at an invisible opponent.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the resonant tenor, telling him with rounded vowels, “Your form could use a bit of work, if I’m being quite honest.”

“Damn!” Willie flushed and straightened up, then clapped his hand over his mouth to cover the curse. Loki stood over him, smiling benevolently enough, but there was mischief in his green eyes. “I can tell you’ve been training with my older brother. Don’t let him teach you any of his bad habits.”

“Mr. Odinson?” Willie beamed. “You’re kin?”

“Aye. We are.” Loki’s tone implied he had mixed feelings on the subject.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Willie said before he could stop himself. “Er… sorry. I didn’t mean… to misspeak.”

“You didn’t. Never fear.” Loki was well aware that his bastardy was a blot on his name. He bore scant resemblance to Thor, and the courtiers in this castle as well as Wyndham’s had remarked on it often enough from behind fans and in crowded drawing rooms over dessert wine. It didn’t help that he was the younger son, living in his brother’s shadow. Willie knew that Loki’s parentage and status weren’t his to discuss. “Fencing is best left to the training yard.”

“It’s already dark,” Willie complained.

“Then perhaps it’s time for bed,” Loki suggested.

Willie pouted.

Loki smiled knowingly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Or, for a nightcap.”

Willie looked confused. “Pardon?”

“My friend. Come with me.”

*

If Thaddeus and Wyndham were disgruntled at not being allowed to linger over apple cobbler in the dining room, they didn’t mention it. They each occupied plushly upholstered, high-backed chairs in the library, sharing a bottle of wine between them at a round reading table. Bucky stood, leaning against the edge of the mantle with his arms folded while Nicholas showed Brock inside, as well, and Thor. Nicholas locked the library door and went to the fireplace, stoking the blaze with another log and turning it with the poker.

“I know your attention has been occupied with the matter of the coronation,” Nicholas began, “but we need to discuss the incident that happened on the boundary of our kingdom. His and Her Majesty were attacked en route to their beach cottage. The attackers were armed with arrows, and it appeared to be an organized attempt on their lives. Not a robbery,” he said before anyone else could suggest it.

“We drove away the brigands,” Thor added, addressing Thaddeus,” but we stripped this from one of them.” He handed over the torn cloth with Ross’ mark. “If it pleases you, Majesty,” Thor continued, “I ask your permission to accompany me to the infirmary to identify the men that we dispatched before their burial.”

Ross looked florid, stiff and uncomfortable. “Of course. This… this is highly unusual. Only my best and brightest wear my mark and fly my colors. Your brother is one of my emissaries,” he said by way of proving this. Thor offered him a polite smile. “I would never sanction a hostile act such as this.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Wyndham agreed, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Nor would I.”

“Hardly an auspicious beginning to your honeymoon,” Ross muttered, glancing up at Bucky, who merely nodded.

“My wife is missing a spectacular view from the cliffs.”


End file.
